
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

®|aprBZ3©]j{n|ng^t 

Shelf. l- 


UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 










4 




» • 



•• • - - r 


f I ■ r 

• -.V* 


>1 


I 





t 

S 







» 


4 







r 


t 




4 




f 


4 


♦ 


4 




i r 




4 




I 


V 

X 


I 


« 


• 4 


t 


> 


V- 


< 



t 


j 




i 







1 




■S . 


4 


,4 


. ^ 


4 


> 


4 


^ % 


»' 



and 





of tfe loal 


GoIIsBtsd StstGfss and Storiss 


By SVLX’AN drey 


BALTIMORE 

CUSHING & COMPANY 
1892 


Copyright, i8g2, by Sylvan Drey 


PRESS OF 

DEUTSCH LITHO'G & PRINTING CO. 
BALTIMORE. 


To my highly esteemed friends^ 

% 

B ER THA H. S TE IV A R T, EDI TH H. S TE IV A R T 

and 

Robert H. Stewart, 

in remembi'ance of the many delightful hours spe7it at 
their home, I dedicate this book, trusting that their 
knowledge of my profound dissatisfaction with the vol- 
ume in its present form, may 7wt prevent them fro7n 
accepting this dedication as a slight toke^i of my fde^id- 
ship. 


■ ? -1 4 


P\ ■ s 
• I ; -'S 


fj ..■■• 




• , ^ vvh 

?V‘ ’ •' •> .•'‘'^*ji w 





f , 




V 

# , 


V . >• : 


? *ir ' w ; • J .T 

' r ' J ^ 


• i 






. ^:-v ’.-- ■' ’. 




;o 



• , <t , 

^ ^ ^ *Ag ■• ^ t 




*1 








» *. 


: -f < 


• •* 


(* AV 


1 'T- 


- 


•V • » 


a-wvJT;;; .M 


^S15A.'■■• ■ r.tifr >v ■» ^ " r 

Sr.V* . v^. ' - 


I « • •»• ^ • 


’ r 


.. vr\* 

’^i^-vtrv: ;'4 


A ■ I* 







■‘ k 



J * • 





•j 


, • 


^,- 


'V >1^ 


IV^ 


-rV 


■i ■■ - Vy^' . , 


->• 




' . ' ’ ^ j.‘ 'V 1 -rV 






i-’.iii, . /V - VtajA- '•’ ^ ■■• ■ ‘ ■ 4 J'..'**Af-''' ^ t ■»■!'- 




‘4 


.t- 




I • 




1 ’ 





- 


♦ 1 ^., ^ . .1 

I- '-■■•?', (>,:j£: ~ 



y ^ 


♦ } » 

• v - : 

Vi 

*.• ■-' •r ‘i . ; ' ' • 

.Sf. ,■• ; -5^ 

’ '-i ■’■ 











I T 


• , . r W 


. C ‘ r 1 *• . • 


’ i 


• * *, ' ■ ... . i 

■ ■ ...■ ■.f:^-: ■.':^ ,'. : ■ ' . 


. . 


» # - f 







;3... • - , '■ , c’- --' - •:^%'4 -a ;Ki-._' 

■H • • > * • ' -•A - .'. » .• , =• y '- ’ - ’.V .. 4*0'- 

W* V ^ -, , V ; ^, . - ,• ^ cp 





f*' ' 




i^.: ’'^m 




* :S* >S 



» "t . 


f - ■• 


. 


W 


■ Jf 




>"1^ *' 

A 


* 

J «^L 




^ ■ 1 . i' jiWa* ^ .. ^ ^ . y: 4 :, 

»>^-4v= » 






4 



FREFA CE. 


CT OME five years ago the author conceived the 
idea of writing a series of sketches and 
stories — about twenty-five in number — similar 
in character to those which make up the contents 
of this little book. /Accordingly, he from time to 
time jotted down stray thoughts until more than 
enough material had been accumulated for the 
purpose. Owing, however, to other literary occu- 
pations during the period intervening between the 
years 1887 and 1890, he could devote to the pro- 
posed work only so much of the time that could 
be spared from his professional duties as was re- 
quired to complete the eleven sketches and stories 
contained in the following pages.* Meanwhile, 


* These sketches and stories appeared originally in different 
magazines and periodicals of limited circulation. They have since 
been revised for this edition. The last, entitled, “Moonlight 
Musings,” is published as a fragment ; several additional extracts 
are needed to make it complete. It is, perhaps, proper to add that 
on the first appearance of the sketch, entitled, “Why, indeed!’ 
the author’s attention was called to certain points of similarity 
said to exist between it and some poem the name of which is 
unknown to him. As he has neither read nor heard the poem, 
such resemblance, if any there be, is purely accidental. 


VI 


PREFACE. 


a condition of health rendering his leisure hours 
pratically unavailable for literary composition has 
interrupted his plans, and forced upon him the 
alternative either of deferring the publication of 
this volume until the series is complete, or of re- 
sorting to the present expedient. Had he any 
assurance of being able to push the projected 
undertaking to early completion, he should adhere 
strictly to his original intention ; but as it is very 
uncertain how long its consummation may be 
delayed, he has concluded, with some misgiving, 
to pursue the present course, hoping to incorporate 
the contents of this book in a larger volume at 
a future day. 

Baltimore, February jd, i8g2. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

I. The Drooping Rosebud i 

II. The Broken-hearted Violinist 4 

III. Why, Indeed! 8 

IV. Ross’s Celebrated Statue of a Perfect 

Woman lo 

V. The Poet and the Angel 21 

VI. Two Portraits of a Beautiful Girl 24 

VII. A Recollection 26 

Vni. A Great Lunar Revelation 32 

IX. Two Love-Scenes 41 

X. Stray Leaves from a Philosopher’s 

Autobiography 58 

XL Moonlight Musings 87 



V • • -• ^ 



...» v*' ^ 

■ , r y, ‘ . - 

t! . . . • ^ ^ •lv_. ^ 

• ti' ‘1 I • • V * I 




I. 

'<■ 


r « 


■,_■ V 'Vi .- 

^v 


\ ' l"* *1^** ’ 

MC' ' ■ . 

Il 

^ * ■ - 



. 


■ l_ 

♦i' 

• 1> :V 

^ - ■ 



y‘y ': - 
*. ’* 


• 

k. 

)' 

1 . 

1 

. 41 

» 


» , 

• 


Ml 

» 




,*■ V,: 


* "Jt,rV.V -•'• ■ >' 

> ^ J* , 


-,• 


*■ \ * 1. 

- t j «' t 

I r 


fc*“V 


• v- ^ ■ ' 



4 


I ■ t .* ^ ♦ 

-V r’iL *'4' * ■■ 

^ S It .‘ T i 






41 * 

4 

JK 

% 


* I a ai -_, . 




i» 


( ' 


■ I • 

•• > . 


•:.:tv..-v , 





*-> 


- - 



A*-'. ...» ' , - i. .^ . 4^V-■■ - . ,r.*. .. ..Y. 


• * I 

f* 



,k.. 4 je 

t 

‘ ■' ^ X ■ f ’ » 

aV *. rj A# * » ^ 



• y 




^ •.' •‘t- -^'^Tlicf * k-j* * '-' 

r ,' - -Jf" «*' *4 ^ *• 



THE DROOPING ROSEBUD. 


© NCE I dreamed that on a bright summer night 
I was walking through a fashionable quarter 
of a modern city. The air was cool and delightful. 
The surrounding dwellings — their stately beauty 
softened by the solemn stillness of night — lay 
basking in the effulgent light of the moon ; and as 
my glance chanced to fall on the parlor-sill of an 
imposing mansion, I descried a solitary rosebud, 
with its delicately-formed head hanging on a 
broken stem, growing mysteriously out of a golden 
urn. Its convoluted leaves, of brilliant red and 
lurid purple tints, strangely interwoven, were 
spangled with silvery water-drops that glistened 
sadly in the moonbeams. 

I stood a long time and gazed from a distance at 
the tear-jewelled flower, so mournfully beautiful in 
the singular fusion of its bright and dusky hues. 
It awakened confused, indefinable emotions in my 
breast, and I was seized with an indomitable 
desire to pluck it ; but no sooner did I approach, 
than instantly the rosebud vanished, the window 
suddenly sprang open, the glittering lights of a 


2 


THE DROOPING ROSEBUD. 


chandelier burst upon the darkness of the parlor, 
and there I beheld a gay company of young men 
and women. 

The hostess — a maiden of delicate form, with a 
sweet, thoughtful face and soulful eyes — was seated 
near the open window, engaged in conversation with 
a young man at her side. It was the occasion of her 
debut in the social world. She was speaking of 
Hawthorne’s Mosses fro7n an old Manse ; and, as 
she spoke, an appreciative enthusiasm lit up the 
features of her face. No idle encomiums, no stereo- 
typed generalities fell from her lips. Her animated 
speech glowed with the fervor of a soul stirred to 
its depths by every touch of human joy and sorrow. 
When she ceased speaking, the young man at her 
side looked at her strangely, smiled inwardly, and 
made some half-veiled remark about sentimental 
women. Immediately the fervid enthusiasm that 
had suffused such charming animation o’er her 
beauty faded abruptly away ; and her features 
darkened with a look of yearning sadness. 

After the lapse of a few minutes her companion 
forsook her, and another young man took his place. 
Presently she was absorbed again in earnest con- 
versation, but hardly had she ceased speaking, 
when he, too, looked at her strangely, smiled 
inwardly, made some half-veiled remark about 
sentimental women, and passed away. And now 


THE DROOPING ROSEBUD. 


3 


again I saw her soul due out of her eyes, and 
despair set its gloom on her brow. Then these 
two self-satisfied young men, greatly amused, 
whispered into the ears of the rest of the company 
the peculiar conversation that had taken place, and 
they all burst out into a boisterous fit of laughter 
that shook the room from wall to wall. The violent 
shock at once extinguished the parlor lights. The 
laughing crowd disappeared in the darkness, and 
the young girl stood alone at the open window, her 
figure slightly bent over the golden urn where the 
rosebud had before hung its head. The cravings 
of her thirsting soul shone out upon her saddened 
features. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, 
and the heart-piercing sighs that issued from her 
heaving' bosom made the urn fairly quiver with life. 
And now my sight began to grow dim. The tears 
welled up in my eyes. I could look at her no 
longer. I walked down the street in distress ; but, 
before turning the corner, I cast a parting glance 
behind me, when lo ! the form of the girl faded 
completely away; and again I saw in the golden 
urn the tear-jewelled rosebud with its drooping head 
languishing in the moonlight. 

March, 1888, 


THE BROKEN-HEARTED VIOLINIST 

HE evening twilight cast its dying gleams into 



the violinist’s cheerless apartment, as he leaned 


over in his chair and buried his face in his hands. 
^‘The bitterness of it,” he exclaimed, in accents 
of the deepest anguish — and a perfumed letter on 
which his eyes had rested a moment ago fell to the 
floor — ^^oh, the bitterness of such a disappoint- 
ment ! A cold repulse without even so much as a 
word of compassion ; and yet I have always loved 
her with every fibre of my being. 

‘Dismiss you from my thoughts ! ’ Yes, proud, 
cruel girl; if only I could! No, no, not cruel, 
not cruel; but, Amy, Amy, you have broken my 
heart!” and, throwing himself back in his chair, 
the violinist burst into a fit of convulsive sobbing. 
An awful gloom settled on his spirits; and long 
before tears could afford him any relief, the even- 
ing light had deepened into night. Then sud- 
denly he arose, and after pacing the room nerv- 
ously for a few moments, he stopped in front of 
a delicately-built Italian violin that hung on the 
wall. 


THE BROKEN-HEARTED VIOLONIST. 5 

^‘Thou art now all that I have in the worlds my 
fair Italian/’ he said sorrowfully, as he took the 
instrument in his hands. ^‘Thou hast no woman’s 
heart in thy bosom. To thee I shall never unfold 
my sorrows in vain.” 

And, as he spoke, sad strains, sighing with all the 
agony of a broken heart, began to float out on the 
stillness of the night beneath the inspired touch of 
his bow. Oh, what mournful sweetness was ex- 
pressed in those pathetic tones ! It was as though 
some forsaken spirit had wafted its dying breath on 
the air. Soon the melody faded away; and, with 
its last faint whisper, the violinist flung himself 
again into his chair and burst into tears. 

^ ^Merciful God, how shall I ever find strength to 
endure it ! What worth can life have for me now 
with nothing but dark misery forever staring me in 
the face?” And hardly had this cry of despair 
escaped his lips, when a feeble call of ^ ^Neighbor! 
neighbor!” from an adjoining room in the tene- 
ment-house, fell faintly on his ears. He started. 
The words were repeated. He rose hastily, went 
into the passage-way, and after a moment’s hesi- 
tation opened a door that led into a scantily-fur- 
nished room. A small lamp centered its hazy light 
about the figure of a middle-aged woman, stricken 
down with disease. She was sitting in a chair, by 
the open window. Her pale, sickly features glowed 


6 


THE BROKEN-HEARTED VIOLONIST. 


with faint animation, as she said tenderly, ‘‘The 
music, sir, was so beautiful ! It has sunk deep 
down into my heart and driven the pain from my 
aching limbs. I almost fancy so lovely a melody 
could lull me to sleep. Oh, how I long for sleep ! 
My eyes are so weary ! Will you not play it 
again? ” 

The sight of this poor, lonely invalid stirred up 
new, vague feelings of misery in the violinist’s 
breast. He wanted to say some kindly word; but 
he could not speak. He merely lifted up his violin ‘ 
and began to draw the bow again across its strings^ 
The melody sounded even more sweetly than be- 
fore. Its plaintive strains were enriched by a new 
wealth of emotion — a certain exquisite tenderness 
that flows out of the heart when personal grief 
blends itself with another’s sorrow; and he played 
and played on far into the night, until peaceful 
dreams stole over the poor invalid’s spirit to charm 
her pains away. Then the voice of the violin grew 
fainter and fainter; and, as it died completely 
away, the violinist knelt down slowly by the 
woman’s side and gazed with a look of intense 
pity on her haggard features. Already the spiritual 
influence of suffering in quickening human sympa- 
thies and expanding the powers of the soul had 
made itself felt. “Sleep! sleep! gentle spirit,” he 
said, as he bent over to kiss her emaciated hand. 


THE BROKEN-HEARTED VIOLONIST. 


7 


Then he rose. Tears began to glisten in his eyes. 
He heaved a heavy sigh, extinguished the light, 
stole softly from the room, and threw himself on 
his bed. ^‘God bless thee! my fair Italian,” he 
said, pressing the instrument closely to his bosom, 
'^God bless thee!” and before the dawn peeped 
in at his window, he had fallen into a tranquil 
sleep. 

November, 1888, 


JVJIV, INDEED! 


® NE night, while all nature in her tranquil 
beauty smiled in the summer moonlight, a 
switchman, who was forever grumbling at his lot, 
sat disconsolate before his cottage door. Discon- 
tent was written in every feature of his face as 
he mumbled to himself: ‘^Curse it! Nothing but 
work, work, work. It’s a slave’s life — shifting 
these confounded rails from morning to night. 
Why was I born, I’d like to know? Why was I 
born? ” 

Then the switchman lapsed into a state of gloomy 
silence. Dark pictures of misery floated before his 
mental vision, and he fell to brooding. Of a sud- 
den, an engine came thundering along and sent its 
shrill whistle through the air. But the appealing 
cry for help which, in this world of ours, oscillates 
continuously from men to man, from man to men, 
found no response in the switchman’s heart. He 
was dead to humanity until the shrieks of his terri- 
fied wife roused him from his reverie. Then he 
jumped up in great bewilderment and rushed fran- 
tically toward the switch ; but alas ! too late. The 


WHY, INDEED ! 


9 


whole train of cars was plunging sidewise into an 
awful ravine, while the wails and screams of the 
ill-fated passengers rang with horrible dissonance 
in the switchman’s ears. 

Appalled at the terrible disaster, he turned back 
in the direction of his cottage and dashed, like a 
madman, through the opening of a forest. On, on 
he sped, he knew not whither. A thousand demons 
seemed close at his heels, and ever and anon he 
fancied he heard them cry out, in tones of hideous 
mockery, ^AVhy was I born! Why was I born?” 
and always the mournful echo sighed through the 
forest, ^‘^Why, indeed ! Why, indeed ! ” 

August, 1888. 


J^OSS^S CELEBRATED STATUE OF A 
PERFECT WOMAN. 


OT so very many years ago there lived a 



sculptor of world-wide renown whose very 


existence, by some strange perversity of fame, 
seems to have been already forgotten. In the 
fidelity with which he reproduced men and women, 
not only in their outward aspect, but also in those 
qualities of the soul that reveal themselves with 
more or less distinctness in the human countenance, 
he has never yet been approached. It was not his 
superior artistic skill, however, that made the name 
of Ross so celebrated. He gained his reputation 
through a mysterious life-infusing power, by means 
of which, Pygmalion-like, he could convert his 
statues into real men and women. The process by 
which this marvelous feat was accomplished, the 
sculptor kept a profound secret ; but he instructed 
his patrons with great particularity how the thoughts 
and feelings of his marble figures might be excited 
into activity. 

That these sculptured beings should be in great 
demand is hardly to be wondered at, — the less so 


ROSS’s CELEBRATED STATUE 11 

because many persons patronized the sculptor under 
the mistaken belief that the owner of a Ross statue 
could shape its conduct and control its actions to- 
suit his own fancy. Influenced by some such con- 
sideration his Holiness, the Pope, sent Ross an 
order for an Italian king; a number of dissatisfied 
Americans clubbed together to purchase a respect- 
able Senator; a well-known Congressman bought a 
constituency; a wealthy congregation took up a 
collection to provide itself with a new minister; 
and a young physician negotiated for a few patients. 
These art-born people turned out to be so natural, 
that no one, for a moment, would have suspected 
their origin; yet the sculptor’s patrons, it seems, 
were not satisfied with his efforts. The Italian 
king was denounced for encroaching on the Pope’s- 
rights; the conduct of the respectable Senator was 
complained of as wonderfully like that of a corrupt 
demagogue; the purchased constituents were con 
demned for having discovered that they were sold ; 
the sculptured minister was discharged because of 
his dull sermons; and as for the new patients, the 
physician racked his brains in vain to ascertain 
what ailed them. Whenever a complaint of this 
kind reached Ross’s ears, he smiled significantly 
and jocosely replied, ^Tt’s true to nature. It’s true 
to nature.” To infer, however, that the sculptor 
never succeeded in pleasing his patrons would be 


12 


ROSS’S CELEBRATED STATUE 


doing him the grossest injustice, as many events in 
his career abundantly attest. They are all worthy 
of a place in his biography; but one episode is 
here especially selected as best adapted, in a brief 
sketch like the present, to give the reader some in- 
sight into the rare genius of the man. 

One day, while chiselling away intently in his 
studio, Ross was suddenly interrupted in his work 
by the demonstrative salutation of a very familiar 
voice. On raising his eyes he saw an old acquaint- 
ance standing before him. 

‘^Well, well. Vane, I declare!” said Ross, shak- 
ing him good-naturedly by the hand. ^‘When on 
earth did you get back? Gossip has it you’re a 
thousand miles away, roaming about like Pluto in 
quest of a wife. Oh! I see, I see; you’ve stolen 
a march on the gossipers. You’re a lucky fellow; 
I congratulate .” 

^‘Stop! stop! Ross. None of your confounded 
jests! Lucky! The deuce ! I’ve abandoned the 
search in positive disgust.” 

The young man who thus addressed the sculptor 
was a person of somewhat pompous demeanor, with 
a very perceptible vein of conceit running through 
his composition. Nor, indeed, was he free from 
other failings. He once attempted to write a 
poem. He sang with great frequency, but little 
success. He even dabbled in art. But conceit, as 


OF A PERFECT WOMAN. 


13 


Ross put it, was Vane’s ‘^strong point.” On 
attaining his twenty-fifth year this young man con- 
cluded to seek a wife. In making his determination 
known, Vane gave the fair sex to understand that 
no inferior woman should ever be honored with his 
name. He was quite unfortunate, however, in his 
love affairs. He was looking for his ideal — ^^a 
perfect woman,” as he called her; but never yet 
had he met a girl without a flaw. One pert miss 
had the assurance to speak of him as ^^a pompous 
fellow intoxicated with conceit;” another rallied 
him on his superficial knowledge ; a third laughed 
aloud while he was singing his favorite ballad; and 
so on, and so on, until poor Vane was forced, in 
sheer despair, to flee from his native country and 
hunt abroad for that ideal creature who seemed to 
have no real existence at home. His absence^ how- 
ever, was of brief duration. He soon returned 
again, having given up his wife-hunting expedition 
^dn positive disgust,” as he just now informed Ross 
in a tone of anger. The sculptor’s first impulse 
on observing Vane’s discomfiture was to burst out 
laughing, but he successfully repressed the faint be- 
ginnings of a smile and simply said in reply: 

‘^Tut! tut! Vane. You don’t mean to tell me 
you’re going to remain a bachelor?” 

‘‘And why not, pray? Heaven knows, Ross, a 
man of my temperament, of my taste, of 77ty educa- 


14 ROSS’S CELEBRATED STATUE 

tion is entitled to have his matrimonial ambitions 
realized ; yet, I pledge you my honor, the Danaides 
themselves had not a more difficult task to perform 
for murdering their husbands, than I have in trying 
to secure a suitable wife. Why, hang it, man, the 
philosopher’s stone itself is as easily found as a 
perfect woman ! ” 

^^An old complaint — an old complaint,” said 
Ross, with a sly laugh. ^AVhy God should have 
seen fit to make so defective a creature of woman 
will always puzzle the brains of men; meanwhile, a 
famous female novelist has solved the intricate 
problem to the entire satisfaction of the flaw-laden 
sisterhood, by pointing out that, under any other 
condition of things, we men might feel altogether 
out of place in woman’s society.” 

^^Bosh! Bosh! Mere metaphysical jargon, having 
no bearing whatever on the point,” said Vane, 
impetuously. 

^‘Not the slightest,” replied Ross, with a half- 
suppressed smile of irony. 

‘‘Modern women aren’t worth a straw,” con- 
tinued Vane, “and I am resolved that no girl 
shall ever be honored with fuy name, who is not 
fashioned after viy notions of what a wife ought 
to be.” 

“Pshaw ! Pshaw ! You are getting to be quite as 
fastidious as our friend Jenks,” answered Ross, 


OF A PERFECT WOMAN. 15 

casting glances at a completed statue that stood 
close by. ^^You both reach similar conclusions 
from very different premises. Jenks, as you know, 
is an enthusiastic admirer of the fair sex. ITe 
thinks there is the germ of an ideal woman im- 
planted in every female soul — the dearth of 
blossoms he attributes to human neglect in failing 
to cultivate the soil. The sad thought that these 
germs are everywhere dying — dying for want of 
light and air — weighs heavily on his heart; but the 
recognition of this melancholy truth has not made 
him any the less an idealist. His soul is as sensi- 
tive as ever to the blighting touch of imperfection. 
Poor Jenks ! He’s an honest fellow. There’s not 
the least taint of cynicism or conceit in his com- 
position ; but he can’t rid himself of his idealism. 
It has actually driven him to the necessity of 
having a wife made to order. Just step here, Vane ! 
What do you think of this beautiful creature for a 
bride? It’s Jenks’ design from head to foot. The 
conception is quite original. It’s almost impossible 
to detect in her the slightest flaw. See, the hair is 
fastened firmly to the head. The complexion is 
just as natural, and the waist as full, as if she were 
not at all intended for a real woman. This modest 
robe, it is true, may not be quite so comfortable in 
the heated atmosphere of the ball-room as the style 
of dress now in fashion, but it successfully avoids 


1 6 ROSS’S CELEBRATED STATUE 

the extremes of the latitudinarian ^ Mother-hub- 
bard,’ and the narrow-minded ^Pull-back.’ You 
must know, too, that the young lady has a fully 
developed brain, and as dainty a little tongue as 
was ever devised for woman’s mouth.” 

^‘By heaven ! Ross,” shouted Vane in great glee, 
^dt’s an excellent scheme, this idea of Jenks. You 
shall sculpture me a perfect woman without another 
minute’s delay.” 

^ ^Anything, my good fellow, to save you from 
the horrible fate of bacherlordom,” said Ross, 
going to a cabinet and opening a drawer. ^^But 
tell me. Vane, what style of beauty do you most 
admire? I hold in my hand the engravings of 
some of the most beautiful women known to art. 
Here’s Psyche; Helen; an ideal head ; Petrarch’s 
Laura; Dante’s Beatrice. Look at these — a Venus 
by Thorwaldsen ; the Venus di Medici; Canova’s 
Venus. Perhaps some of these portraits by the 
celebrated painters would suit you better. Here’s 
Titian’s daughter, Lavania ; Rembrandt’s wife; 
^‘The Spanish Hat,” by Rubens ; the Duchess of 
Devonshire, by Reynolds ; another portrait by 
Titian; a — ” 

^^Let me see — let me see,” interposed Vane, 
somewhat bewildered. ^^Ah ! I think she will 
answer.” 

‘ ^Thorwaldsen’ s Venus ! Not a bad selection,” 
said Ross. 


OF A PERFECT WOMAN. 


17 


^‘And remember now, Ross, old fellow, she’s to 
be absolutely perfect.” 

^‘Leave that to me,” said the sculptor, ^^and if 
you don’t fall more desperately in love with her 
than did the Roman knight on beholding Cleo- 
mene’s Thespian maiden, I shall never touch a 
chisel again.” 

Three weeks later the statue was completed ; 
and when Vane visited the studio for the se< ond 
time, he was gratified to find his bride patiently 
awaiting his arrival. The marble beauty was still 
as cold and lifeless as the substance from which she 
had sprung; but Ross instructed Vane how to coax 
her into life and then — lest his presence should 
prove embarrassing to the lovers in the scene that 
was to follow — he modestly withdrew. No sooner 
had he retired than Vane approached the statue 
and thus addressed it according to Ross’s in- 
structions : 

‘^Awake, fair lady, awake from the dismal sleep 
of inanition that in thy unhuman shape kept thee 
so long in life-denying bondage. Awake ! and let 
the warmth of life diffuse itself through the cold- 
ness that enwraps thy graceful form. Ah ! dost 
thou tremble? It is well — it is well. The voice 
that would rouse thee from thy lethargy has not 
made its appeal in vain. Already the tremor of 
sensation has begun to thrill through thy frame ! 


1 8 ROSS’S CELEBRATED STATUE 

The vital spark is stirring in thy bosom ! The 
blood has mounted to thy cheeks ! Gleams of a 
new-born intellect are stealing into thy counte- 
nance ! No soulless captive in a stony prison art 
thou now, but a veritable woman ! ” 

^^Ah ! sir,” said the statue, opening its eyes like 
one waking from a trance, yet manifesting not the 
slightest sign of confusion, ^^tell me, I pray thee, 
am I dreaming, or art thou really he whom I am 
to wed ? ’ ’ 

''Maiden, thou shall indeed be my spouse, if 
thou provest to be the perfect being whom for years 
I’ve sought in vain.” 

^'Gracious sir, I hope I may be worthy of thy 
love; for thou art handsome indeed — more beauti- 
ful by far than Adonis himself.” 

"Go on, sweet, sweet creature,” interrupted 
Vane. 

"And thou hast a noble character, sir, and an 
amiable disposition, as any one can easily read in 
thy face.” 

"Loveliest of beings, how I adore thee ! ” sighed 
Vane. 

"Kind sir, thou art wiser by far than Socrates, 
braver than Leonidas, nobler than Marcus Aurelius, 
and withal so modest — so unassuming.” 

"Divinest of women ! ” interposed Vane. 

"And yet, noble sir,” continued the. statue, 


OF A PERFECT WOMAN. 


19 


am told that there are girls of flesh and blood 
who mock thee, thou in whom a maiden of stone 
has found her ideal — a man more handsome than 
Adonis, wiser than Socrates, braver than Leonidas, 
nobler than Marcus Aurelius.” 

^‘Oh, thou angel! how I love thee!” exclaimed 
Vane, almost beside himself with joy; and folding 
the maiden to his bosom, he began to cover her 
brow with kisses. While he was engaged in this 
delightful occupation the door of the adjoining 
room was gently opened, and a voice called out : 
^‘Why, Vane, what in the world are you about? 
What in the world are you about ? ’ ’ 

^‘By heaven ! Ross,” exclaimed Vane, ^^no bache- 
lordom for me. There’s no denying it, your’ re an 
adept at sculpturing women ! She’s perfection 
itself!” 

^‘Aha! what did I tell you?” replied Ross. 
But Vane was too much infatuated with his bride 
to continue the conversation. After kissing and 
hugging her to his heart’s content, he informed his 
darling that he desired to take a stroll with her 
through the city. Certainly, my sweet Adonis,” 
she replied. Vane offered her his arm, and the 
happy couple passed out into the hall together. 
AVhile they descended the steps, Ross chuckled to 
himself on recollecting how quickly Vane had 
fallen in love, and his parrot kept mechanically 


20 


ROSS’S CELEBRATED STATUE 


gabbling: ‘‘It’s true to nature, it’s true to nature.’^ 

“Hush! hush! Poll,” said Ross, almost con- 
vulsed with laughter. But Ross’s caution was 
wholly unnecessary. Vane was listening attentively 
to the sweet-sounding phrase about Adonis and 
Socrates, which his bride repeated again by special 
request ; and, under the circumstances, he could 
hardly have attached any deep meaning to the 
twaddle of the impudent bird, even if he so much 
as heard it. 

Not long after this important event in Vane’s 
career, he was married to his beloved. It is 
greatly to be regretted that history has preserved 
to us no authentic record of their married life. 
That they lived as man and wife until separated 
by death at a good old age is all we know with 
certainty. How Vane managed to enjoy the society 
of this art-born maiden for so many years is, how- 
ever, not near so interesting a problem as how she 
contrived to live so long with him ; and we may be 
quite sure that if the great secret of Mrs. Vane’s 
life was successfully concealed in every other way, 
the fact of having been Vane’s wife for over half 
a century must have at last betrayed her unnatural 
origin. 

October^ 1888. 


THE POET AND THE ANGEL, 


dim light gleams from the poet’s home in 



the valley. Night has fallen. Grave-looking 
clouds, holding council in the sky, frown down 
upon the earth. The autumn winds, roused from 
their slumbers by a distant peal of thunder, 
grow more and more boisterous in their sportive 
pranks — bent perchance on enlivening the dull 
deliberations of the clouds. The poet is alone 
in his study, gazing out into the night. The 
delicate refinement of his features ; his grave, yet 
softly tender eyes; the half-thoughtful, half-dreamy 
expression of his face reveal the ennobling influence 
of a long life consecrated to the study of nature 
and of man. There is a deep tinge of sadness in 
his gaze — a certain look of disappointment, as 
if some great sorrow had eaten its way into his 
very soul. 

“Was it then, after all, but a wild fancy of youth, 
my hope of kindling noble impulses in the breasts 
of my fellowmen, of quickening their sympathy for 
human suffering, of awakening their souls to a finer 
perception of the beautiful, to a deeper apprehension 


22 


THE POET AND THE ANGEL. 


of the marvellous mysteries of the universe, through 
the medium of song? This has been the sole am- 
bition, the ruling passion of my life. But to what 
purpose have my aspirations enslaved my faculties? 
Who cares to linger over the lines that have fallen 
from my pen? True, now and then, my inspiration 
has touched the heart of a reader far enough away 
from this secluded valley to preserve the honor of 
my native land ; and even among my own country- 
men, a few, perhaps, have heard of my name ; but 
over the thoughts and feelings of the masses, my 
verses can have exerted no greater influence than 
if I had buried them with all the secrecy of a 
miser’s greed.” 

Thus lamented the poet, when forthwith the sky 
darkened. Fierce flashes of lightning darted wildly 
across the gloom. A loud, rumbling crash of 
thunder followed. The wind, no longer in a spor- 
tive mood, howled and whistled madly through the 
valley until its dismal tones died away from sheer 
exhaustion. Then, above their dying wail, there 
rose the faint music of rustling wings, and, of a 
sudden, an angel emerged from the darkness before 
the astonished gaze of the poet. 

^ ^Grieve not,” said the angel. ^^Look ! Dost 
thou not see youder light?” 

The poet, on recovering self-possession, turned 
his eyes in the direction where the shining finger 


THE POET AND THE ANGEL. 


23 


of the angel pointed, and there, in the murky 
atmosphere, he beheld a bright, miniature disc of 
light, waxing larger and larger. 

‘‘Observe,” continued the angel, “how the tiny 
light is spreading. See, already it is lost in the 
surrounding darkness ; and now no mortal eye 
can follow its waves in their far-reaching travels, 
or measure their powers of irradiation. In a like 
manner, the divine light of genius, by means of a 
few choice spirits, diffuses itself through the spiri- 
tual darkness of the multitude.” 

Having uttered these words, the angel paused. 
A new thought began to play on the poet’s features. 
“Thou hast spoken truly,” he said, and bowed his 
head humbly before his comforter. A faint smile 
of satisfaction passed over the angel’s face ; and 
then, with a look full of love and pity fixed upon 
the poet, he vanished gradually away. 

August, 1888. 


TWO FOR TT A ITS OF A BEAUTIFUL 
GIRL, 

r jC\ EKE I asked to name the occasions in life 
vV that awaken in the soul feelings of ecstacy, 

I should assign a very conspicuous place, if not, 
indeed, the most conspicuous, to moments that 
might be spent in the company of a beautiful girl, 
whose intellectual aspirations and spiritual sym- 
pathies kindled her speech into an intense glow of 
enthusiasm. But not in her conversation alone 
must this influence manifest itself. Her very 
silence must breathe of it, and all her charms of 
person and graces of manner must be softened and 
subdued by it. A beautiful girl, wholly unconscious 
of her outward attractions, bent forward in eager 
speech, deeply immersed in some vital problem of 
life, with now an earnest look of thoughtfulness, 
and now a bright gleam of an awakening idea 
playing on her features — how the sight of her 
incites to activity the divine faculties of the soul ! 
She is, indeed, the living incarnation of a noble 
ideal. Her beauty invests her with a halo of 


TWO PORTRAITS OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. 25 

exquisite loveliness that transfigures our surround- 
ings and elevates our whole plane of thought and 
feeling. 

But the portrait just thrown on the screen of the 
imagination — has it a very striking resemblance to 
the Helens of a social life? Does the ennobling 
joy which it excites also stir the heart of a high- 
minded man, lured into the company of a society 
belle by the fascinating charms of a beautiful face ? 
Or may his emotions be more properly likened to 
the sorrows of some high-souled Pygmalion whose 
Galatea, on coming to life, should sympathize 
with her creator’s passionate longing for a perfect 
woman in some such manner as this : ^‘Oh ! pray, 
pray, sir, do not look so serious. Weary me not 
with your tiresome speeches. Away with your 
gravity ! Do you not see that I have just awakened 
from the deep sleep of death? The thrill of life is 
already beginning to tingle within me. I feel its 
vital force coursing through my veins. Ah ! it has 
gone to my feet. Come, come, quick ! let’s to the 
dance ; for I have grown passionately fond of 
a waltz” ? 


April, 1888. 


A RECOLLECTION. 


B eneath the splendor of glittering lights^ 
charming girls, with flushed cheeks and faces 
here and there wreathed in coquettish smiles, are 
dancing in a ball-room. Round and round they 
whirl in the arms of gay gallants, amid lively 
strains of music and a rich display of flowers. 
Now they chat, now they laugh, now some stop to 
catch their breath, and soon they are off again in a 
rapid waltz. Everywhere is life — mirth — merri- 
ment. 

A young lady, sitting alone in an ante-room, is 
looking out on the scene of gaiety. None of those 
attractive faces is more beautiful than hers ; but^ 
like some delicate-hued flower about to die in full 
bloom, she is fading away in all her loveliness. 
Yes, fading away, and who can know it better than 
she? Her cheeks are burning with a hectic flush. 
Dull pains extend across her chest. Again that 
hollow, hacking cough — how it grates on the ear ! 
But there is no trace of physical suffering in her 
features. It is her soul’s repinings that have woven 
those sorrowful hues in her tender beauty. A veil 


A RECOLLECTION. 


27 


has lifted itself before her gaze. She is peering 
into the future, and, in a vision, she sees a maiden, 
clothed in a robe of white, soaring heavenward 
in the arms of the Angel of Death ; the sweet, 
maidenly face is bending its piteous gaze upon a 
merry crowd of waltzers, as if yearning ardently 
for their love and sympathy; but they are dancing^ 
on joyfully amid mirth, laughter and music, in 
utter neglect and forgetfulness of her. 

The couples are resuming their seats in the ball- 
room. The first waltz is over. The music has 
ceased. A stately-looking man — one of the young 
lady’s friends — enters the ante-room. He greets 
her with a bow and a warm shake of the hand. 
A lovely smile, in which she seeks to conceal the 
sombre tinge of her thoughts, answers his friendly 
greeting. 

^‘Pray, Hortense,” he says, in a half-playful,, 
half-earnest tone, ^^why so absorbed in medi- 
tation?” 

^^Oh, I am only thinking about my friends, 
Harold,” she replies, in a slightly tremulous voice 
and then, as if impelled by some inward emotion 
which she struggles in vain to repress, she rises, 
walks to the piano, near which the young man is 
standing, sits down and plays Consolation — one of 
Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte. Her tones rise 
full of plaintive pathos, giving utterance to as 


28 


A RECOLLECTION. 


much passion as is possible to the waning physical 
strength of a touch naturally so delicate. The 
music penetrates to her innermost depths. She is 
feeling its powers over her in the seeming expansion 
of her whole nature. On striking the last chord, 
she lifts her glance. A ragged flower-boy is peeping 
in from a corridor. As she catches sight of him, 
she moves hastily to the door and slips a few coins 
into his hand. 

“What a noble girl,” says her friend to himself. 
“And yet the hour of final parting will soon be 
here ; — a few tears, a few months of mourning, 
and then she Avill fade out of our memory as com- 
pletely as though she had never dwelt among us. 
Why are such noble women born at all, if destined 
so soon to die?” While these thoughts are passing- 
through his mind, the young lady resumes her seat. 
He turns to her and says : “Hortense, I never heard 
you play with so much feeling before.” 

“It is so comforting a melody, Harold ; it speaks 
right to the heart. The composer of that little gem 
will never be forgotten so long as there are any 
responsive chords in the human breast. It is so 
with all those who, feeling deeply the sorrows of 
others, have found a voice for their inward stirrings 
in some beautiful work of art. Thus are human 
beings immortalized. But it is only men of genius 
who enjoy so great a prerogative ; we of commoner 


A RECOLLECTION. 


29 


texture — we, when our souls, winged for final 
flight, soar aloft into unknown, unknowable realms 
— we sink into the grave and soon vanish out of 
the thoughts of our fellow-men. Is it not true, 
Harold, is it not true?” she asks, bending over 
eagerly, as if to catch the words of some mighty 
prophet. 

‘‘Let us trust not, Hortense, let us trust not,” 
he replies, trying the conceal his own utter hope- 
lessness in tones of half-suppresed despair. 

“Oh ! if only I could feel,” she exclaims — and 
her lovely features light up for a moment with 
all the joy of a realized aspiration — “if only I 
could feel that in death we, too, linger in the 
memory of our fellow-men as a beneficent influence 
over their lives, the parting here — but Harold, 
they are getting ready for another dance. Don’t 
you hear those inspiriting strains ? How very in- 
considerate of me to be sounding such gloomy 
notes ! Go, please. Here comes your partner” — 
and as he bows himself out of the room, she tries, 
with a sad smile, to chase away the clouds of sor- 
row overshadowing her young soul. 

* ^ 

More than a year has rolled by. They have long 
since laid her away to rest, and she is sleeping 
peacefully beneath the drooping boughs of a lonely 
willow. Again those charming girls are assembled 


30 


A RECOLLECTION. 


under the glittering lights of the ball-room, whirl- 
ing round and round with their partners amid 
flowers, laughter, mirth and music. Again he is 
in the ante-room. Some young ladies are there, 
too, talking and laughing about the merest trifle. 
He is watching them, — when suddenly the image 
of a lovely girl, seated at a piano, steals in upon 
his vision. There is a look of intense earnestness 
in her face, and, as her fingers move over the keys, 
tones of passionate tenderness swell out and die 
away again on the air. He looks ! He listens ! 
It is the same melody which, once before, he 
heard in that very room, and it brings back with 
it all the sacred memories of that night. He feels 
as if he were standing again in the very presence 
of the beautiful being who played it. He cannot 
believe that she is really gone — gone forever ! A 
strange feeling comes over him. The laughter of 
those frivolous girls grows very oppressive. Turn- 
ing away, he walks to the window and gazes up 
at the stars. Presently he lowers his glance and 
discovers a wretched beggar on the pavement below. 
The sight of this ill-clad little fellow, with his 
pleading look of misery, reminds him of the flower- 
boy who peeped in at the door more than a year 
ago ; and, in another moment, the young man is at 
at the beggar’s side, holding in a warm grasp the 
thin, pale hand which he has just filled with coins. 


A RECOLLECTION. 


31 


The thrill of fellow-feeling flowing from the pres- 
sure of that little hand, the delight suddenly beam- 
ing out of those pitiful eyes, leads the young man 
at last to perceive why the lofty spirit lives even 
when so soon it must pass away. 

^‘Hortense ! Hortense ! ” he exclaims. ^^Oh ! 
could I but speak to her — but whisper a word into 
her ear.” Then, suddenly releasing the beggar’s 
hand, he abandons the gaieties of the ball-room to 
commune in solitude with the noble girl who lies 
sleeping in her grave, forgotten, forsaken by that 
merry crowd. 

December^ 1888. 


A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION 

e VER since the announcement of the heliocentric 
planetary system, first formulated with precision 
in Copernicus’ De Rezwlutionibus Orbhirn CcElestiuniy 
there has been more or less speculation upon the 
question of lunar habitation. Modern astronomers, 
however, agree that this supposition has no evidence 
whatever to support it ; and even those of our 
speculative scientists, who, out of worldly con- 
sideration for the moon, concede the possible 
existence of a lunar race, deny that these creatures 
can have any but the faintest resemblance to the 
inhabitants of the earth. It is the physical con- 
dition of the moon, we are told — such as the 
absence of water and the want of any appreciable 
atmosphere — that justify these conclusions ; and 
one of the arguments relied on to prove the great 
paucity of lunar air is the occultation of the stars, 
a phenomenon known to occur when the moon 
passes across the constellations. 

As this view has the substantial endorsement of 
the entire astronomical fraternity, it may indeed 
seem presumptnous to hazard a contrary opinion. 


A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION. 


33 


However, deeply as the writer regrets to find him- 
self at variance with his learned fellow-astronomers, 
he feels it his duty to record the fact that, despite 
the exposure of the great Lunar Hoax of 1835, he 
has positively discovered a race of beings in the 
Moon, similar, in some respects at least, to human 
creatures. The discovery itself is one of those 
epochal events in history fully vindicating the 
writer’s claims to a place among such illustrious 
men as Kepler, Newton and Laplace ; and he shall 
find no difficulty, he feels sure, in securing a foot- 
hold on these celestial heights after the proofs of 
his statements have been laid before the public. 
This he promises presently to do in the shape of a 
lunar episode revealed to him through the vision 
of a scientific dream. But let not the discoverer 
be misunderstood. He claims no such intimate 
acquaintance with the lunar spirits as the eminent 
Swedenborg seems to have enjoyed. Whether the 
lunar man has anything in common with the 
^ Wespertilio-homo,” so carefully described by the 
energetic projectors of the Lunar Hoax, whom the 
reader, if he thinks the occasion justifies it, may 
class among the ^^speculative scientists with certain 
worldly tendencies’ ’ elsewhere referred to ; or 
whether he resembles M. Figuier’s ^ ^superhuman 
being,” who makes his home in the ether realms; 
or whether he is modeled entirely after the in- 


34 A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION. 

habitants of the earth, are matters which every one 
must determine for himself after a careful review of 
the evidence. 

In addition to proof of the kind just indicated, 
the discoverer had also intended to enter upon an 
elaborate criticism of the current theories of lunar 
habitation ; but the scanty remuneration of literary 
composition has easily persuaded him not to exhaust 
the subject in the space of a single article. While 
therefore repudiating any present intention of 
drawing on material carefully stowed away for 
future use, he nevertheless takes this occasion to 
correct a grave error in logic repeated with exas- 
perating frequency in the astronomical treatises 
examined by him. He refers to the proposition 
that the occultation of the stars by the dark parts of 
the lunar disc affords adequate proof of the paucity 
of air in the moon. Seeing that it is a matter of 
daily occurrence, here on earth, for one man to 
eclipse another solely through a plentiful supply of 
wind, there seems to be not the slightest warrant 
for the above inference, and, accordingly, the 
writer has no hesistancy in rejecting it as a no7i 
seqiiittir. 

In conclusion, it remains but to add that the 
discoverer is determined to have a fair hearing 
before the people. Nothing shall frighten him off 
from this resolute purpose. Neither the recollection 


A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION. 35 

of the sad fate of Anaxagoras, nor of Bruno, 
nor of Galileo. And lest the American freeman 
should laugh inordinately at the idea that there is 
any ground for such fears as are here intimated, 
the writer implores the foreign bondmen to have 
compassion on one who lives in a land where the 
superabundance of freedom is a constant menace 
to liberty. 

Among the mountains of the Moon, some two 
hundred and forty thousand miles distant from the 
earth, there is a particular race of creatures occu- 
pying a tract of land that goes by the name of 
Liinavale. Here they dwell together, under a sort 
of government, which they boast of as far superior 
to that of any other planet in the Solar System. 
And well might they be proud of the spirits 
that ruled over the Lunavale Republic ! They 
had a model chief. He was a genial, jovial 
sort of ethereal being, always smiling, ever ready 
to crack a joke, never refusing to laugh at the 
poorest of lunar jests, and withal as quick to drain 
a cup with the humblest Lunavalian as though he 
had lived all his life among democratic politicians 
of an earthly stripe. His views on the duties of a 
magistrate were queer, but eminently sound ; and 
while never openly expressed, they were secretly 
adhered to with rigid conscientiousness. For 


36 A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION. 

instance^ he had a strange way of vetoing measures 
that did not benefit his country by strengthening 
his own chances of re-election. He disapproved of 
the use of glass ballot-boxes, because their design 
was too plain for his artistic sense. He had the 
whole system of competitive examinations abolished 
on the ground that he had plenty of friends among 
Lunavale fools. Nor, in his generosity towards his 
friends, did he neglect his relatives. He could 
always be relied on to secure appointments for 
lineal descendants and next of kin, when the govern- 
ment had any offices in its gift ; and, in the absence 
of any such vacancy, he would lay the matter before 
the National Assembly, which honorable body, on 
being thus appealed to, invariably found, by some 
remarkable coincidence, that the growing prosperity 
of the Republic made the creation of the desired 
office absolutely indispensable. 

The legislators, like their Chief, were also very 
affable creatures, and excellently well-fitted to assist 
so good a magistrate in the affairs of the govern- 
ment. They never sinned against their country by 
filling the statute-book with useless legislation. 
No law was ever passed without a definite purpose 
in view. At the same time, those of the natives 
who knew how to set the legislative machinery in 
motion could easily make their influence felt in the 
councils of their nation. Moreover, no Lunavale 


A GREAT LENAR REVELATION. 


37 


official was ever known to fill his private purse 
directly from the public coffers — a bad custom 
said to prevail to an alarming extent on certain 
parts of a neighboring planet. Wants of so purely 
a personal nature were always satisfied in the only 
legitimate way — through the imposition of a tax. 

Under conditions such as these, this lunar people 
lived for a century with nothing to disturb their 
equanimity. Nor would there ever have been so 
much as a ripple on the surface of their life, but 
for the happening of an important event in the Sun. 
One day the Chief of the great lunar Republic was 
surprised by the appearance of three strange-looking 
creatures, who represented themselves as the rulers 
of the Solar world. From them it was learned that 
the Sun had been kept for years in a constant state 
of revolution by reason of the fiery temperament of 
its inhabitants. But a strong determination had 
manifested itself, of late, to suppress such rebellious 
uprisings and adopt some stable form of goverment. 
With this end in view (the fame of Lunavale’s 
political institutions having traveled far beyond 
the confines of the Moon), these strangers were com- 
missioned to visit the great Republic in order to 
study its peculiar form of government. 

The Lunavale Chief, on discovering by whom he 
was being addressed, extended his distinguished 
guests a most courteous welcome, and begged to 


38 A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION. 

assure them that their investigations should be 
facilitated in every imaginable way. The illus- 
trious foreigners set to work at once, and after 
several days their labors were completed ; but 
before taking their departure they expressed the 
desire to say a few words to the people. The 
request was readily granted ; and in order that the 
event might be celebrated with the proper public 
spirit, the day set apart for the occasion was pro- 
claimed a national holiday. When, at last, the 
appointed time arrived, a vast concourse of beings 
assembled at the meeting-place in front of the 
Capitol. The Solar Potentates occupied a promi- 
nent position on the central portico ; and, as the 
orator of the occasion arose, he was greeted with 
tremendous cheers. 

^‘My kind friends,” he said, as soon as the noise 
subsided, ^dt is to be greatly feared that many of 
you will regard our purpose in convoking this vast 
assembly as a rather singular way we Solar beings 
have of showing our appreciation of your hospitality. 
After so cordial a greeting, one less blunt and 
plain-spoken than myself might, indeed, be per- 
suaded to abandon the disagreeable task assigned 
me; but, if you stop to reflect, you will be easily 
convinced that a foreigner cannot show himself 
better disposed towards you than by expressing 
few wholesome truths which, for obvious reasons. 


A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION. 


39 


escape you. I need hardly say that you own 
a wonderfully beautiful stretch of country, with 
resources far greater than those of any of the 
other Solar provinces. Then, too, you have more 
cheerful and inviting cities, with imposing ware- 
houses and schools and churches. But in spite of 
the fame of your political institutions, in spite of 
your much vaunted freedom — pardon my candor — 
you are the worst governed creatures in the entire 
Solar System, with the single exception of a certain 
part of that God-forsaken planet, the earth. It is 
true that you have no autocrat to tyrannize over 
you. Personal liberty is apparently within the en- 
joyment of each and all. But you have not learned 
to distinguish between free institutions and freedom. 
You are living under a despotism.” At this junc- 
ture the Lunavale magistrate sprang up violently. 

^Tt is false, fellow-citizens! It is false!” he 
cried. ^^Down with these impudent foreigners ! 
Down with these impudent foreigners ! ” 

Immediately all the other public officials joined 
in the cry ; while the liberty-loving chief snatched 
up adarge scroll on which the Lunavale Constitution 
was inscribed, and flaunting it triumphantly before 
the public gaze, he exclaimed indignantly: ^‘This 
sacred scroll is the best refutation of such malicious 
slanders. Come, fellow-citizens, read it for your- 
selves. Here it is plainly written : 


40 A GREAT LUNAR REVELATION. 

^Each and every Lunavalian shall be free and 
independent. He shall have full liberty of speech 
and action. No corruption shall be tolerated in 
office. The vote of each and every citizen shall be 
held sacred. No tax shall be imposed on any 
citizen, except to defray the necessary expenses of 
the government. Here, here, read for yourselves.’ ” 
The spectators pressed eagerly forward to examine 
the scroll. 

^Tt is true! It is true!” they shouted in the 
wildest joy. ^^Down with these impudent for- 
eigners ! Drive them out ! Drive them out ! ’ ’ 

Without any further warning, a few stalwart 
creatures now forced their way madly through the 
crowd, seized hold of the offenders, and ruthlessly 
ejected them from the Moon, amid the jeers of the 
spectators. Thereupon the Lunavale Chief mounted 
the rostrum himself, and descanted at some length 
on the blessings of freedom. The parting words of 
this brilliant oration were greeted with rounds of 
deafening applause, and then the crowd dispersed 
quietly to their homes, more than ever convinced 
that they were the best governed creatures in the 
entire Universe. 


March, i88g. 


TWO LOVE-SCETTTS. 


1 . 

I T was a glorious September day. She was stand- 
ing in the cottage garden, her eyes fixed on 
a rose-bush. There was a delicious stillness in 
the air, and the dying sunlight, still aglow in the 
western sky, cast its golden hues on the surrounding 
fields and meadows. She stretched out her hand 
and plucked a rose from the bush. How beautiful 
were its soft red tints ! A smile, born of some ex- 
pected pleasure, broke over her face as she sepa- 
rated its closely-packed petals. Then she heaved a 
little sigh, and looked across a wide space to a 
broad, smooth road. 

^‘'Robert ! ” she exclaimed, and her face bright- 
ened with joyful animation, as she ran eagerly down 
the long lane. 

^^Rob, dear Rob,” she said, panting for breath 
as she kissed him, I was beginning to be afraid 
you never would come. It has been such a dull, 
tiresome week.” 

So it has, Nell, my beauty ; so it has. I know now 
what a very dreary place this world would be without 


42 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


you. Why, I couldn’t think of anybody but you — 
I couldn’t interest myself in anything but love the 
whole time I was away.” And he laughed aloud 
as he caressed her, while she adorned the lapel of 
his coat with the flower which she held in her hand. 
Then they walked up the lane together ; she, with 
her flaxen hair, her brilliant eyes, and her full, 
gracefully-rounded form, hanging lightly on the 
arm of the tall, manly figure at her side. 

^^Nell, I wish this was our wedding-day,” said 
the young man, swinging his arm carelessly to and 
fro. I’m getting heartily tired of a bachelor’s 
life.” 

So am I, Rob, — I mean heartily tired of living 
like an old maid. And just to think that we must 
keep our engagement secret for another week !” 

^^Yes, it’s hard, very hard, Nell. But ah! it 
will be delightful, when we are once married and 
have settled down. We shall have a fine cottage of 
our own, and on the cold, wintry evenings we shall 
sit together at a cheerful fireside, you with your 
knitting, and I with — with my arms around you,” 
he said, laughing aloud. 

Oh, Rob, yes; it will be so delightful!” she 
exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with new pleasure. 

^^\nd I will make you wear your new smoking 
jacket ; the one I embroidered for you on your last 
birthday. We shall be very, very happy, living 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


43 


together in our own little cottage, all to our- 
selves.” 

^‘One — two — three — four months more of bach- 
elor life. Heavens, Nell, how long ! I wish we 
were walking up to the altar now.” 

But not with my wedding-dress sweeping over 
this mud, I hope,” she said, with a merry ripple 
of laughter. ‘‘Oh, Robert, it will be beautiful, — 
pure white with silken flowers !” 

“ And I’m sure, sweetheart, you will look like a 
queen in it,” he replied, casting an affectionate 
glance at her. 

At this point in the conversation they had reached 
the cottage door, and, as he released her arm, 
“ Rob,” she said, turning upon him with impulsive 
mischievousness, “ somebody made love to me while 
you were away. Guess, guess who asked me to be 
his wife !” 

“ Oh, I can guess easily enough, Nell. Wilfred, 
of course. And what did you tell him ? You 
know I was always very jealous of Wilfred, my 
darling.” 

“Why, Rob,” she said, playing with the flower 
on his coat, “of course I told him plainly enough 
that I didn’t care for him.” 

“ And what did Wilfred say to that, eh, my little 
beauty?” he inquired with a careless laugh, as he 
brushed a few straggling hairs from her brow. 


44 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


^^Why, Rob, at first he turned away from me, 
and began to look down on the ground ; then sud- 
denly he raised his head and stared at me with 
something like a frown. ^ Miss Nellie, haven’t you 
anything kinder than that to say to one who loves 
you as I do — one who would give up everything to 
make you happy?’ ‘ I have told you the truth, Mr. 
Wilfred,’ I answered, ‘and I don’t know what else 
there can be for me to say. Please, Mr. Wilfred, 
don’t speak to me of love again.’ Then he sprang 
up as if he had been stung by a hornet ; we were 
sitting there on the bench under the old oak-tree. 
‘Very well, miss,’ he said, and walked angrily down 
the lane. I was so glad it was all over that I jumped 
up, too, and ran into the house.” 

“Well, well, Nell, Wilfred’s no match for you; 
he’s no match for you, sweetheart,” he said, putting 
his arm around her with an air of triumph. 

“ And, Rob, you’ll not be jealous of Mr. Wilfred 
any more; will you, dear?” 

“ No, Nell, not after the little hornet has stung 
him like that,” he said, bursting into a hearty laugh ; 
and as he bent over to kiss her, the silvery tinkling 
of a bell was heard from the dining-room. 

“Dear me! it’s tea-time already. Come, come, 
mamma is waiting for us, Rob,” she said, and, as 
she pushed open the door, they entered the cottage 
together. 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


45 


It was nearly midnight before they appeared again 
at the door. The moon was partly hidden behind the 
clouds^ and there was a slight chilliness in the air. 
He lingered for a few moments on the steps, holding 
her hand in his. Then he embraced her. 

^^Come, one sweet kiss,” he said, and, raising 
her head, she felt the warm pressure of his lips. 

Good night, Nell.” 

Good night, Rob, good night. Pleasant 
dreams,” she said, and, as he hurried down the lane, 
her eyes followed him until his manly form was lost 
in the darkness. 


II. 

I T was a warm, clear night. The moon shone 
calmly down upon the city, and with its soft 
radiance of unwonted splendor illumined the figure 
of a young girl sitting in the darkness, near a 
parlor window, with her finely-shaped head resting 
on the back of a velvet arm-chair. Her face was 
somewhat pale ; there was a slight tinge of weari- 
ness in the soft lustre of her eyes, and, in her whole 
aspect, a certain physical languor, through which 
the spiritual glow of her soul broke forth in radiant 
beauty. Every now and then she raised her head 
and looked with patient wistfulness toward the 
window. Suddenly she sprang up and hastened 
with eager delight to the front door. 


46 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


Gilbert, my love, how I have been longing to 
see you !” she said, throwing her arms gently about 
the neck of a young man of slender build, with 
dark hair and a deeply reflective cast of features. 

Ethel!” he exclaimed, as they kissed each 
other in passionate joy. How glad I am to be 
with you again! But tell me, love, how are you 
feeling? Better, much better, I hope.” 

Ever so much.” 

Come, let me take a doctor’s look at you under 
the gaslight. Ah, you are still a trifle pale ; but 
you look stronger than you did two weeks ago.” 

He was about to continue, but suddenly paused 
in the act. Thoughts were shaping themselves in 
his mind that stirred up certain dull feelings of 
oppression, which the first flush of joyous excitement 
had almost dispelled. He quickly turned his face 
from the light, pressed his cheek against hers, and 
then continued, in the same cheerful tone, as though 
nothing had intervened to interrupt his train of 
thought. 

^G\nd after those charming letters of yours, 
which I read and re-read with such pleasure, need 
1 ask how you have been spending your time ? I 
wish I could let you feel how much I enjoyed your 
appreciative criticism of Middlemarch. It gave me 
a new insight into the depths of your soul, and sup- 
plied me with much food for reflection. After all. 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


47 


is it not true, Ethel, that lovers may find happiness, 
too, even in enforced separation ? When the heart 
connot satisfy its hunger with a kiss, with a caress, 
with those many other little arts and blandishments, 
it begins to feed on its own cravings, and this brings 
with it a new joy — the joy of feeling all the more 
intensely the spiritual presence of the one we so 
dearly love.” 

I know what you mean, Gilbert,” she said, in 
a tone of cheerful tenderness. I have often felt 
it during your absence. Somehow it seemed to 
me as though our spirits were always holding com- 
munion, as though, like some guardian angel, you 
were ever hovering near me, yearning to console, 
to befriend, to cheer me — to shield me from all 
harm. It is a kind of ecstasy that opens every pore 
of the soul and invests the whole world with new 
charms. Often when at evening we were all sitting 
together in the library, the thought of you would 
stir every emotion within me ; and then, do what 
I would, I could not control my excited feelings. 
Always I was impelled to lay aside my book, and, 
creeping up behind mother, father, or sister’s chair, 
I bothered them with my caresses until they would 
look up with a significant smile, as much as to say : 
‘Ah, dear ; love-sick again !’ ” 

The color mounted to her cheeks as she spoke. 
She lowered her eyes and played with his watch- 
charm. 


48 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


love-sick girl to be proud of,” he said, gazing 
at her with a loving smile. Then, as if moved by 
some sudden remembrance, Ethel,” he continued, 
after a short pause, I had almost forgotten to in- 
quire about Mr. Morris. Was he much affected by 
the news of our engagement ?” 

he gave way completely and wept like a 
child. It almost broke my heart to see poor Mr. 
Morris in tears. He has always been so good and 
kind to me.” 

The tears glistened in her eyes as these words fell 
from her lips. She took his arm and they walked 
slowly together toward the parlor door. 

I always felt,” she continued, in a tender voice, 
^Hhat there was something more than friendship in 
his attentions, and in every imaginable way I dis- 
couraged the hope that any closer relation could 
ever exist between us. Nor did his diffidence 
permit him to disclose what I had long since di- 
vined, until I told him of our engagement ; and 
when I saw how completely he lost control of him- 
self, I did all in my power to comfort him. I tried 
to make him feel that I valued his honest love, even 
though I could not requite it. I begged him to 
accept my friendship. I promised him that he 
should always be welcome at our home — that you 
and I would always strive to make his life brighter 
and happier.” 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


49 


That was right, Ethel ; you are a noble, noble 
woman,” he said, half in joy and half in sorrow. 

They stood a few moments near the parlor win- 
dow. Then she resumed her seat in the arm-chair, 
and he sat down close by her side. She felt slightly 
fatigued, and was about to lean back in her chair, 
when, by the aid of the moonlight which shone full 
upon his features, she noticed for the first time a 
look of deep trouble in his face. 

‘‘^Gilbert,” she said, in great anxiety, Gilbert, 
there is something troubling you. I can see it 
plainly written in every line of your face. What is 
it, tell me, dear, what is it?” 

He made no reply, but slowly lowered his eyes, 
as if overpowered by an oppressive gloom. 

Ethel,” he exclaimed, with a sudden outburst 
of emotion, ''some bitter disappointment” — but as 
their glances met, he broke off abruptly. It seemed 
to him, as she sat there with her eager soul looking 
out of her eyes, that her very strength was wasting 
away in sympathy for him. 

"O, my love, I cannot, I must not tell you now,” 
he said, trying to stifle his agitated feelings with an 
impetuous kiss. "You have suffered enough already. 
You are still so weak, so weary — how cruel of me 
to burden you with my own sorrows. I am selfish, 
miserably selfish. Wait till you are better — 
stronger.” 


50 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


^^No, Gilbert, I implore you, do not ask me to 
wait. I can have no peace of mind so long as I 
am kept in suspense. Whatever may have befallen 
you, I wish to know it. I feel strong, dear; tell 
me, what is it?” 

She threw all the depth and fervor of her affection 
into this appeal, and, as her pleading tones fell on 
his ear, he began to move about uneasily in his chair. 
They made him crave all the more for the consola- 
tion which her love had to offer, and rendered him 
powerless in the continued effort to lock up his grief 
within himself ; but, under the prospect of finding 
immediate relief for his pent-up emotions, he grew 
more calm and leaned back quietly in his chair. 

Ethel,” he began, after a moment’s hesitation, 
speaking in that sad, reflective tone which is the 
way of tender natures when the mind, in disclosing 
a present sorrow, has to travel over pleasant memo- 
ries of the past — Ethel, can you recall the Sunday 
afternoon when you and I were sitting together on 
the terrace, some months before our engagement?” 

Perfectly,” she replied, with her gaze riveted 
intently upon him. 

You remember I was reading to you some pas- 
sages from Laokoon^ to which you listened with eager 
interest, until the approaching darkness compelled 
us to lay the book aside ; then we fell to discussing 
certain questions on the limitations of art, suggested 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


51 


by Lessing’s fine critical insight, and afterwards 
the conversation turned on the subject of books. I 
recollect you made especial mention of Tourgenieff’s 
novel, Liza. You gave me an outline of that simple, 
beautiful story in your own inimitable way, and 
ended by extolling the work as one remarkable alike 
for serene power and delicate tenderness. Then I 
happened to speak of Anna Karenina^ and this led 
to a comparison of Tourgenieff’s merits with those 
of Count Tolstoi — a theme that occupied us for the 
rest of the evening. It was in these quiet little talks, 
my darling, that I first learned to know and to love 
you. Your pa.ssionate enthusiasm for all that is 
good and beautiful in literature and art, the sympa- 
thetic responsiveness which every ennobling aspira- 
tion awakened within you, acted like a magnet on 
my soul ; and, without even knowing whether I 
should ever be able to win your love, I could not 
resist the strong impulse urging me to make of you 
a confidante. Then it was that I first pictured to 
you the life of an author as my ideal state of exist- 
ence, vaguely hinting at certain of my literary pro- 
jects, and trying to make you feel how entirely my 
own aspirations to authorship had dominated all my 
other ambitions, how I longed to create some great 
work of fiction, worthy to live on in the memory of 
man long after the writer had sunk into his grave. 
Since that time, you know how often these topics 


52 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


have formed the subject of our conversation. But 
I have kept you in ignorance of one thing to this 
very hour. The book which I had in mind was partly 
finished when first I mentioned it to you. The hope 
of some day surprising you with a copy fresh from 
the press was the motive of this secrecy; but ” — his 
voice faltered, the tears welled up in his eyes — but 
that day will never, never dawn. Overwork and 
the mental anguish which I underwent during your 
spell of sickness have completely shattered my health. 
While you were ill I made desperate efforts to hide 
my physical condition from you. My physician 
had repeatedly ordered me to leave the city, but I 
could not persuade myself to go until I found you 
convalescing. Even then, Ethel, I stole away on a 
matter of pretended importance ; and, though now 
feeling somewhat better, I fear I shall never fully re- 
cover. Every mental effort requiring any degree of 
concentration produces in me a depressing nervous 
excitement, which makes work irksome that once 
served as a delightful stimulus to my mind ; and my 
book, my book,” he broke out in despair, it will 
never see the light of day.” 

She watched him with an awful sadness, as he put 
his hand to his brow to conceal the tears streaming 
down his cheeks. His utter hopelessness fell like a 
heavy shadow on her spirits and set all her nerves 
in a quiver. But she soon found a means of self- 
control in her ardent wish to comfort him. 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


53 


Gilbert, my love, do not despair. Try to 
dispel these discouraging thoughts. You will re- 
cover very soon, I feel sure,” she said, bending 
over and striving to soothe him with her caresses. 

Oh ! if only I had strong hopes of being able 
to complete my book, Ethel,” he exclaimed. Is 
there any disenchantment more terrible than the 
gloomy realization of physical incapacity blasting 
an all-absorbing ambition ? And what is to be re- 
gretted even more, my love, than my own disap- 
pointment, I fear that I am growing pessimistic. 
Doubts, awful doubts are beginning to assail me. 
Formerly I dismissed as groundless the notion that 
we are being developed at the expense of our hap- 
piness, but now I am losing much of my faith in all 
this upward striving. Sometimes I think that the 
world would be far happier if our souls were dead 
to aspirations that end so often in darkening our 
lives with shattered hopes. And when I look on you, 
over whose young life my sorrow has cast its gloom 
even while you are but betrothed, I almost wish, 
my darling, that we could be transported to some 
humble cottage, far beyond the reach of civilization, 
where we might dwell together with no other desire, 
no other thought, no other ambition, than to live 
for and love each other. ’ ’ 

Gilbert, do not say that, do not say that, my 
love. It sounds so very unlike you. Without your 


54 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


aspirations, without the noble aims which you have 
always cherished, you could never be to me what 
you are. The love which a less exalted nature 
might feel for me — one whose soul could be dead 
to high aspirations, or even less sensitive than yours 
to the pangs of blighted ambitions, could never 
satisfy the cravings of my heart, could never make 
me nearly so happy as I now am ; and rather than 
forfeit such happiness, I should infinitely prefer to 
endure whatever pain your lofty endeavors may ex- 
act of me. But oh ! Gilbert, I feel it cannot be that 
high ideals ever make us unhappy. Do not the 
springs of all true happiness — the delicious joy of 
loving and being loved, the power of losing one’s 
self in the marvellous beauty of the universe, the 
noble creations of art, of music, of literature — do 
they not owe their source to the innermost yearn- 
ings of the soul ? ” 

While uttering these words, she leaned forward 
in her chair. Her whole frame seemed to glow 
with the impassioned fervor of her speech. He 
was sitting there motionless, his gaze fixed on a 
beautiful painting of Murillo’s that hung on the 
opposite wall in the full lustre of the moon-light ; 
and, as he drank in her every word, his eyes 
seemed to kindle with the inward light of return- 
ing faith. 

She paused for a moment on noticing this change 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


55 


in his features ; and, as she ceased speaking, the 
sounds of a piano stole into the room. Some one 
in the library, who must have felt keenly the power 
of music, was playing Rubinstein’s Kamennoi-Os- 
trow No. 2 2. It was her sister. The young player’s 
very heart seemed to be flowing out into that beau- 
tiful melody, which thrills so intensely with the 
deepest yearnings of an idealist’s soul, and, as they 
both listened to the music, they felt a spiritual ex- 
altation, such as deadens our sensibilities to all the 
grosser pleasures of life, surging like a tide-wave 
within them. 

Almost unconsciously — while his eyes were still 
fixed on the moonlit painting — he took hold of her 
hand, and she clung to him with a new intensity of 
feeling. 

Neither of them could utter a word while those 
deep-quivering tones pulsated through their veins. 
They sat there in breathless silence, as though 
each was striving to catch the divine whisperings 
of the other’s soul; and when at last the music 
died entirely away, a sweet, pleading look of imper- 
ishable love met his gaze, as he gradually let his 
eyes fall upon her. Then she turned and kissed 
him with passionate ardor. 

O Gilbert ! my love,” she said, giving vent to 
some strong inward agitation, ‘Gell me that you 
have lost none of your faith in these divine awaken- 


56 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


ings of the soul — tell me, oh ! tell me, that there 
still abides with you the deep-rooted conviction 
that nothing but good can come from striving ever 
higher and higher in search of the purer light.” 

Yes, Ethel, you are right, you are right, this is 
one of those precious moments that teach us the 
real meaning of life. It is one of those moments 
that revive our hopes, that restore and strengthen 
our faith in all that is good, grand, and noble in 
the world. It is true, my darling, I have not been 
myself to-night. Sickness has made me see things 
in a distorted perspective. The suffering so often 
bound up with the noblest possibilities of life can- 
not have its origin in the soul’s upward strivings. 
It must be the result of some conflicting evil, hidden 
from us in the endless entanglement of human con- 
duct. But whatever may be its real cause, my love, 
you are right ; high ideals are worth all the suffer- 
ing they may entail on us.” 

O Gilbert ! you have lifted a great burden from 
my heart,” she said, her eyes growing moist as 
she laid her head on his shoulder. 

Then suddenly .the tears began to course down her 
cheeks ; but they were tears of joy, that sank deep 
down into his soul — tears from which his new-born 
hopes drew sustenance, while he held her trembling 
frame in his arms. 


TWO LOVE-SCENES. 


57 


Two hours had rolled by. The stars were still 
twinkling in the heavens. It was one of those 
clear, soft, calm nights that awaken feelings of rev- 
erence within us. They were standing at the 
front door, wrapped in the effulgent light of the 
moon. She was smoothing his brow with her deli- 
cate hand, and he was gazing at her with love- 
thirsting eyes. 

Good night, Ethel.” 

Good night,” she said, after their lips had met 
in one deep-drawn kiss. And then, as they parted, 
feeling their hearts more closely united under the 
influence of a new sorrow, their faces beamed with 
tender joy. But it was not the joy of narrow 
emotions and limited sympathies. No, it was hap- 
piness that had tasted of grief — joy touched with 
the saddened hues of fellow-feeling for all those 
over whose lives there hangs the shadow of sorrow. 

February, i88g. 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A PHILOSOPHER'S 
A UTO BIOGRA PHY. 

64 .... It was here, at this charming sum- 

mer resort, that an incident occurred, which, as it 
proved to be of great significance to me in after 
life, may not be unworthy of record. Crystle Hall, 
the hotel where I had taken up my abode for the 
summer, was very picturesquely perched on the top 
of a sloping sward. The fagade was draped in a 
heavy mantle of ivy, and interspersed beds of 
variegated flowers enriched the fresh verdure of the 
encircling grounds. The entire building was sur- 
rounded by a veranda, which in the rear jutted 
half-way out over a torrent that rushed down from 
a neighboring mountain. 

To loiter here in the calm stillness of a starlight 
night was my special delight, and many a pleasant 
hour I used to while away on this portico, watch- 
ing the water dance impetuously over the rocky 
ledges on its course to the river. One lovely June 
night, while leaning over the balustrade, listening 
to the gurgling eddies, I was interrupted in my 
vague musing by the clear musical ring of a child’s 


STRAY LEAVES 


59 


voice. Turning my eyes in the direction whence 
the sounds came I saw one of the guests of the hotel — 
a minister whom I knew only by name, — seated 
near the other end of the portico. He had his 
arm about the waist of a little girl who stood at his 
side. She was an exceedingly attractive child, 
dressed in exquisite taste, and for one apparently 
not over eight or nine years of age, her features 
wore a wonderfully thoughtful expression. 

‘ Papa,’ I heard her say, as she pointed her little 
finger toward the sky, ^ isn’t that a beautiful star? 
Who made all those stars shine way high up like 
that, papa?’ 

‘^ The minister began playing with her long 
golden curls. 

^ God, my daughter,’ he answered, as he gazed 
up at the heavens. 

‘ Those many, many points of light that you see 
scattered over the sky, those high blue mountains 
way far off, all those fine old trees and that rushing 
stream of water there, all come from the hand of 
our Heavenly Father. Isn’t it a beautiful world 
we live in, Gracie, and isn’t God great and good to 
give us all these things to make us happy?’ 

‘ Yes, papa, God is very good,’ she replied 
thoughtfully ; and, as she spoke, the violent move- 
ment of the torrent seemed to arrest her attention. 
Suddenly she turned to the minister again and said : 


6o 


FROM A 


‘ Papa, who makes the awful storms that tear up 
trees and the lightning that kills people, is it the 
devil ? ^ 

‘^^No, God watches over the whole world, my 
daughter.’ 

^ But is God good, papa, when he kills people?’ 

‘ Yes, Grade, God is always good and just. He 
does everything for the best,’ the minister replied. 

‘‘ I was beginning to grow intensely interested in 
this conversation, and was anxiously waiting to 
hear what possible objection the bewitching little 
creature might have to offer in opposition to Chris- 
tian theodicy, when unfortunately — or ought I to 
say, fortunately — the child’s maid put in an ap- 
pearance, and, after the young miss had kissed 
her father ^ good night,’ took her off to bed. 

Nearly eight years after this occurrence, while on 
a visit to a friend, I chanced one day to be strolling 
through an art-gallery of a populous city, when my 
attention was attracted to a painting entitled. The 
Apostate. The artist — some painter of local repute — 
had succeeded in portraying with admirable skill 
and rare power the dark misery of a young woman, 
who, on finding herself no longer able to accept 
the dogmas of Christianity, had begun to realize 
that, with the loss of her faith, life was being robbed 
of all its meaning ; and there she stood, in hopeless 
despair, forsaken by all those most dear to her. 


philosopher’s autobiography. 6 1 

overgloomed by the awful thought of self-destruc- 
tion. 

Being particularly impressed with the excellence 
of the work — although by no means a connoisseur 
in matters of art — I sat down on a divan to study 
it. There were several persons standing around 
me. One young girl, who was in the company of 
some acquaintance, seemed to be especially engrossed 
in the painting. I could not see her face, but 
suddenly I heard her exclaim, ^ How life-like, Mr. 
Man is !’ Apparently she spoke in the full convic- 
tion that the apostate had been guilty of a terrible 
sin, yet there was something between a sigh of pity 
and a tremor of sympathy in her voice, as though 
she felt her own soul not altogether secure in its 
religious moorings. After the lapse of a few minutes, 
she and her companion walked toward the main 
exit, and, as they passed me, I stole a glance at 
them. The girl’s face seemed familiar to me, but 
I racked my memory in vain. I could neither 
recall her name nor the circumstances of our first 
meeting. Just as they left the building, my friend 
entered. He was to meet me at the art gallery by 
appointment. I saw him raise his hat in response 
to the young man’s bow. I rose instantly and 
went to greet him. 

^ Albert,’ I said, ^ do you know the name of the 
young lady who just passed you?’ 


62 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


^ Miss Grace Winn/ he replied. 

‘^‘Daughter of the Rev. Dr. Winn?’ I asked, 
somewhat eagerly. 

‘ Yes,’ said my friend, demanding to know why 
I manifested so lively an interest in a young miss 
who was apparently a perfect stranger to me. I 
was by no means prepared, on general principles, 
to defend myself from the charge involved in this 
inquiry, but, being for once amply fortified, I easily 
succeeded in justifying my curiosity. When I 
recounted my recollections of Miss Winn, and 
told of her exploits, as a mere child, in the field 
of polemics, my friend listened with evident 
pleasure, and even promised that I should be intro- 
duced to the Winn family at the first opportunity. 
But, unhappily, before he found the means of fulfill- 
ing his promise, I was compelled to return home. 

Two years later, one sultry afternoon, I was care- 
lessly skimming the columns of a newspaper, when 
my eye happened to light on the name of Miss 
Winn as one of the registered guests of Crystle Hall 
at New Castle Hill, the place where I had first met 
her. It was toward the end of June, about the time 
I usually took my vacation. I was undecided where 
to spend the summer, although I had been thinking* 
over the matter for some time. If it be true that 
women are vacillating, they nevertheless often stim- 
ulate men to prompt and decisive action, for in less 


philosopher’s autobiography. 63 

than three days I was snugly ensconced in a cheer- 
ful room at Crystle Hall. 

^^New Castle Hill had undergone very little 
change in the space of ten years. It had lost none of 
its old charms in my eyes. There was the same 
romantic beauty about the irregular dells and wild 
gorges, the same rugged grandeur about the undu- 
lating mass of mountains, and the same exhilarating 
freshness about the landscape that had originally 
made the place so attractive to me. Our hotel was 
by no means crowded, and I thus got to see more of 
Miss Winn than would have been likely under dif- 
ferent circumstances. We passed each other quite 
frequently in our rambles through the groves and 
on our various walks, especially on the veranda. 
She was generally in the company of some acquaint- 
ances. I do not know that I made any special effort 
to be introduced to her. But I was conscious of 
having all the willingness of Barkis, with something 
of young Marlow’s timidity. Circumstances, how- 
ever, finally conspired to bring us together, and 
after I had made her acquaintance we were often 
thrown into each other’s society. I found her to 
be quite a charming girl, amiable, thoughtful, and 
very unassuming. I missed, indeed, some of that 
inexpressible sweetness which had marked her 
childish features. The firmer lines of a maturer devel- 
opment had usurped the plastic lineaments of early 


64 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


childhood. There was the same reflectiveness in her 
face, deepened, if anything, by time ; but I noticed 
only a trace of that full spontaneous glow of curi- 
osity which characterized the unrestrained question- 
ings of her childish mind. Those who make beauty 
solely dependent upon regular features, who insist 
that it is to be determined by the foot-rule, would 
hardly have considered her very beautiful. Neither 
were the lines of her mouth, nor the curves of her 
cheek perfectly accurate ; yet there was something 
singularly bewitching in the expression of her face, 
and a certain arch loveliness in her smile, eluding 
all analysis, which, if absent, the foot-rule would 
not even have missed, and which the mere regularity 
of features could never have supplied. Her eyes 
were not large, but brilliant and very soft. She 
had an almost flawless complexion. Her carriage 
was dignified, her head well poised, but there was 
not the least touch of hauteur in her demeanor. 

I generally found pleasure in forming new ac- 
quaintances, if for no other reason than because it 
afforded me an opportunity for studying human 
nature ; and, whenever I could do so with propriety, 
I always endeavored to turn the current of the con- 
versation in the direction which would be most likely 
to indicate the drift of the innermost thoughts and 
feelings of those with whom I came in contact. But 
such opportunities do not always present themselves. 


philosopher’s autobiography. 65 

During the first weeks of my stay I rarely, if ever, 
was alone with Miss Winn. When we made an ex- 
cursion into the surrounding country, or took our 
jaunts through the woods, or ascended the moun- 
tains, there were never less than four in our party ; 
and, in obedience to some unbending law of attrac- 
tion, all managed to keep exasperatingly close to- 
gether. On these rambles our conversation was 
generally confined to subjects wholly impersonal in 
their character ; but occasionally a remark fell from 
the lips of Miss Winn, which served to throw con- 
siderable light on the deeper side of her nature. 
Perhaps it might have been but a simple exclama- 
tion about a half-wilted flower, picked up on the 
way-side, or an expression of wonder at the peculiar 
formation of a piece of quartz, or in admiration of 
some detected fossil remains. In all her observa- 
tion there was a certain breadth of view noticeable, 
as if she were trying to find a lasting place in the 
great scheme of things for the little objects of her 
affection. In what she said there was not the least 
touch of affectation. Her thoughts were expressed 
with spontaneous impulsiveness, and never was there 
any conscious effort to say anything profound. 
She had a particular passion for flowers, and was 
as familiar with their names as if they had been her 
most intimate associates. At that time my knowl- 
edge of botany was limited to the few plants, trees. 


66 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


and flowers which my eye had been accustomed to 
see in my own garden. I doubt whether I so much 
as knew the difference between a marigold and an 
aster ; and I well remember how greatly she was 
amused at my mistake in confounding the arbor vitae 
with a certain variety of cedar. 

Thus the days wore on pleasantly enough with- . 
out any occurrence of noteworthy importance until 
toward the end of July, when, happening one after- 
noon to find Miss Winn alone on the front piazza 
of the hotel, I asked her whether she cared to walk 
to Fern Terrace^ the only place of interest in the 
vicinity which neither of us had yet reconnoitred. 
She quite willingly accepted the invitation, but 
preferred waiting until later in the afternoon ; and 
accordingly we started out toward sundown, taking 
a road, which in its alternate windings over open 
slopes and through shady groves, kept a lovely 
stretch of country constantly in view. The weather, 
too, was delightful ; but for some unaccountable 
reason the walk did not yield me near so much 
pleasure as I had anticipated. Almost the entire 
length of the way I experienced a feeling of uneasi- 
ness, somewhat akin to a slight depression of spirits. 
Neither of us had much to say until we were nearly 
at our journey’s end ; and then, as we suddenly 
descended a sharp turn in the road, she entirely 
lost the thread of an interesting conversation, on 


philosopher’s autobiography. 


67 


beholding the scene that burst on our view. The 
sight was one never to be forgotten. Far down 
below us, from a shadowed dale, rose a huge suc- 
cession of irregularly shaped, shaggy rocks, im- 
bedded terrace-like in a ravine. From top to bot- 
tom, these rocky heights were covered with a luxu- 
riant growth of fronds ; out of the highest crevices 
grew the holly fern, spreading its dark-green, 
glossy leaves over every part of the upper projec- 
tions, while the nether rocks were most tastefully 
adorned with graceful pinnules of the lady fern. 
At the base of the terrace, water spurted up in the 
form of a fountain; and, as it fell to the earth, it 
Avas carried off by a placid stream which, once a 
rushing, roaring torrent that had carved its way 
through a solid bed of rock, now flowed on peace- 
fully between its prison walls at so great a depth 
that the little gorge might have been mistaken for a 
miniature model of the great Colorado Canon. Here 
we lingered for more than an hour, surveying with 
wondering admiration every nook and corner of this 
secluded dale, which seemed, indeed, like a charm- 
ing bit of fairyland woven out of the delicate conceits 
of a poet’s finest imaginings. Miss Winn was very 
enthusiastic over the rare beauty of the ferns. I 
gathered a few specimens while she was sitting at 
the base of the terrace, and when I brought them 
to her she thanked me, in a quiet way, and tied 


68 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


them gracefully together with a piece of ribbon. 
Then she pulled out her watch^ and glanced at it 
hastily. 

‘‘ ^ Oh, have we really been here so long?’ she ex- 
claimed. ^ It’s quite late, Mr. Soule ; we must be 
going.’ 

^ I am at your command. Miss Winn,’ I replied. 
Then she rose, brushed a few leaves from her drcss^ 
put on her hat, and we started for home. It was a 
delightfully cool evening, such as they are accus- 
tomed to have in these regions even in the hottest 
part of summer. We ascended a narrow, steep path 
which led up to the main road, and, on reaching 
the summit, we found the blue mountain-tops still 
aglow with the golden flush of the dying sunlight. 

^ Oh, how beautiful !’ she exclaimed with a sud- 
den start of delight. We paused for a moment and 
looked up at the pink, orange glow in the western 
sky. ‘ I am afraid I shall be spoiled after all this 
enchanting scenery,’ she continued, as we resumed 
our walk. 

^Are you very fond of the country. Miss Winn ?" 
I inquired. 

‘ Oh, there’s nothing I love better than the 
streams, the rocks, the mountains, flowers, trees 
and sunshine,’ she replied ; ^ but I’m deathly afraid 
of storms. A cloudy sky makes me very melan- 
choly ; and it never lightens and thunders but I 


philosopher’s autobiography. 69 

feel as though some evil spirit had broken loose on 
express purpose to destroy the earth. What a beau- 
tiful world this would be if there were no storms, 
no lightning and thunder, no earthquakes !’ 

‘Yes, Miss Winn. Unfortunately nature does 
not always look upon us with a gracious smile. 
She can frown darkly, too ; and I fear she does 
not always show us much mercy when giving 
vent to her ireful passions in the awful fury of a 
storm, in the rude violence of an earthquake, or in 
the fiery outburst of a volcano.’ 

“ ‘ That idea has often occurred to me,’ she said 
with a slight involuntary start, as though she were 
not wholly displeased, yet by no means entirely 
gratified at finding me giving expression to a 
similar thought. ‘ Yes, Nature does sometimes 
seem very cruel. Floods and earthquakes have very 
little compassion on us. They destroy human life 
without the least sign of pity or remorse. It is 
dreadful to think of all the poor creatures whose 
lives have been sacrificed through no fault of theirs. 
It is all so strange. I cannot understand it. God 
is good and merciful,’ she added, as if timidly 
seizing the opportunity to give vent to some deep- 
hidden feeling; ‘ why is it, I wonder, that such 
disasters ever happen ?’ 

“She ceased speaking for a moment, and we 
walked on in silence. ‘You see, Mr. Soule,’ she 


70 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


began again suddenly, ^ I am still given to those 
sinful questionings which my father tried to cure 
in my childhood.’ 

^ Why do you call them sinful, Miss Winn?’ I 
asked, growing very much interested in her ear- 
nestness. She made no immediate reply, but simply 
looked at me in a half-perplexed way, as though she 
thought it strange that I should ask such a question. 

^ How can they be otherwise than sinful?’ she 
said, after the lapse of a few moments. ^ God does 
everything for the best. We ought to put our trust 
in Him and not presume to judge of His ways.’ 

‘But surely. Miss Winn, we are not to blame 
for the involuntary questionings excited within 
us by the workings of the universe. And how 
can the honest effort to arrive at a true explanation 
of the great problems involved in our existence here 
and in our relation to God be a sin? Can it be 
possible, is it conceivable, that we were endowed 
with our intellectual faculties for the purpose of 
being denied the use of them?’ 

“ ‘ What you say seems plausible enough,’ she re- 
plied in a slow, reflective tone ; ‘ but it must be 
wrong, for see what would be the consequence. 
With reason for our guide, we should be led into the 
darkness of unbelief and abandoned forever to 
despair. Whenever these sinful doubts assail me, 
that terrible picture. The Apostate^ flashes across my 
mind. I cannot recall it without a shudder.’ 


PHILOSOPHER S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


71 


^ I very well remember, Miss Winn,’ I said, ^ at 
the time I saw you in the Raphael Art Gallery, how 
profoundly you seemed to be affected by the deep 
anguish and utter loneliness written in the features 
of that poor girl’s face. Your manner betrayed 
your emotion, and there was something in your 
voice that indicated a much greater willingness to 
pardon her supposed sin than you should have cared 
openly to confess.’ She lowered her eyes as I 
spoke. There was a perceptible blush on her cheeks. 
I saw that I had divined the truth, and I continued. 

‘ But, Miss Winn, I cannot say I share your opinion 
that faith and reason stand in antagonistic relation 
to each other ; or that religion has anything to fear 
from the utmost freedom of inquiry.’ 

^ I wish I could say that I agree with you, Mr. 
Soule,’ she replied in a tender voice. 

b\re you willing to listen to a long lay sermon ?’ 
I asked. 

^ Quite willing.’ 

‘^^Well, then, let me see if I can succeed in 
showing you that there is a way of reconciling 
faith and reason in matters of religion, without 
doing violence to either.’ 

‘^^And shall you accomplish this, Mr. Soule, 
without degrading the universe into a soulless and 
godless creation?’ she inquired after a pause. 

^ Such is my sincere conviction. Miss Winn,’ I 


72 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


answered. ^ But to resume what it was my inten- 
tion to say, everything, of course, depends upon 
our conception of God: and how we define faith 
and religion. If the term God is used to symbolize 
an all-powerful being, fashioned in some way after 
man, perfect in wisdom, perfect in love, perfect in 
mercy; and if religion means a system of worship 
for the glory of God, a set of dogmas on which de- 
pends the salvation of the soul ; and if faith con- 
sists in a childish acceptance of those doctrines, 
without investigation and in the face of the most po- 
tent facts to contradict them, then, indeed, your fear 
that faith and reason are beyond all hope of recon’ 
ciliation is not without foundation. If we say of 
God that he has the power to do what he wills, the 
wisdom that precludes his doing anything unwise, 
and the goodness that renders him incapable of 
wrong, we cannot escape the conclusion that he is 
to be held responsible for the evil and misery that 
prevail here on earth. It is very amusing to watch 
how those who become thus hopelessly entangled in 
a network of sophistry try to wriggle out of its 
meshes. They tell you God is all-powerful, all- 
wise, all-merciful, all just. If you find fault with 
their logic by pointing to the misery oftentimes 
consequent upon the action of the destructive forces 
in nature, for which, of course, God is ultimately 
responsible, they will upbraid you for attempting to 


philosopher’s autobiography. 73 

sit in judgment on the ways of the Infinite, an ar- 
gument which of itself I consider pre-eminently 
sound. But how can they consistently make use of 
it? By proclaiming the justice of God they are 
themselves guilty of the very offence with which 
they charge their opponents ; for, certainly, to call 
God all-just is to say that he is not unjust, and what 
is this but passing judgment on his ways? In other 
words, they tell us that we may sit in judgment on 
God if we conclude that he is just, but not if we 
come to a contrary conclusion.’ 

‘‘ But may not a Christian object, Mr. Soule,’ 
interposed Miss Winn with some animation, ^ that 
his knowledge of God’s attributes rests on Christ’s 
authority — that it is a truth derived not from obser- 
vation^ but from revelation ?' 

a ‘Very true, Miss Winn,’ I answered. ^ You have 
anticipated an objection to my line of argument 
which I was myself about to raise. But no one has 
a right to set up the Christian dogmas in his defence 
without a fearless determination to weigh carefully 
whatever tells against them ; and, at all times, he 
must be prepared to listen to, and satisfactorily re- 
fute, the arguments of those who honestly differ 
from him. Even then the teachings of Christianity 
would be in hopeless conflict with the deductions 
of reason ; and it remains for the Christian to 
reconcile the contradiction as best he may. I must 


74 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


confess that so far as my investigations go, the 
claims of Christianity have not been sustained. 

^‘‘Am I then to understand, Mr. Soule,’ asked 
Miss Winn, timidly interrupting me, ‘ that you 
reject the belief in our Saviour’s divinity?’ 

^ Yes, Miss Winn, that is a conclusion at which I 
have long since arrived; and the New Testament I re- 
gard as sacred, only in the same sense that all history 
is sacred. It is, of course, conceivable that I am 
wrong — conceivable on the supposition that man 
has been endowed with reasoning powers for the pur- 
pose of being deluded — conceivable on the hypothe- 
sis that God wanted to reveal himself to us and yet 
did all in his power to befog the revelation. In this 
sense, I say, it is, of course, conceivable that I am 
wrong. I cannot possibly believe that I am. But, 
however that may be, I have not the remotest fear of 
being punished for having candidly avowed my 
opinion after a careful and patient research ; and if, 
indeed, it be nevertheless a fact that intellectual dis- 
honesty is a necessary condition to the salvation of 
my soul; if I may not enter the portals of heaven 
unless I ignore the conclusions forced upon me by 
my reasoning powers, then I think I am in posses- 
sion of the strongest possible evidence for refusing 
to believe in the justice or mercy of God.’ 

feeling of anxious excitement arose within 
me as I spoke. Then, as now, I regarded a 


philosopher’s autobiography. 75 

right understanding of these questons as of vital 
importance to the welfare of mankind. To me it has 
always been quite apparent that human society can 
never attain to anything like an ideal state without 
a broad philosophic view of religion. It is, and of 
necessity must be, the foundation on which the 
ideal social structure is to be reared. I was there- 
fore more than pleased at the turn which our con- 
versation had taken. Knowing what Miss Winn’s 
early training had been, and being vaguely con- 
scious of feeling more than a passing interest in her, 
1 was much concerned to make good use of this op- 
portunity to turn her thoughts in a direction that 
might serve to widen her religious horizon. But 
the ideas were now beginning to crowd so quickly 
into my mind, under the pressure of time, that I 
was perplexed what to say next. Dusk was slowly 
approaching. The western sky had already lost its 
brilliant glow, and the moon was dimly visible in 
the heavens. She was looking up at the fading 
flush of light with a deep inquiring glance that 
strangely fascinated me. 

‘ Miss Winn,’ I resumed, while my eyes rested on 
her, ^ I trust my words do not sound to you like 
sacrilege. I am speaking in no spirit of irreverence. 
I believe in my heart that the Christian view of God 
does but belittle the Infinite, Eternal, All-pervading 
Spirit that animates this glorious universe.’ 


76 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


^ But now I have done with destructive criticism, 
and I want to ask you to consider with me for a 
moment how great is the mystery of life and crea- 
tion. Here are you and I and countless thousands, 
united by ties of fellow-feeling, dwelling together 
on the face of an immense globe which, but a mere 
speck among the circling millions of spheres scat- 
tered throughout the vast regions of space, keeps 
continuously rolling on and on without the least 
sign of fatigue. What shall we say of such a world 
— a world marvellous in its structure, teeming with 
beauty, where there is much pleasure to be had and 
not a little suffering to be endured ? Well, before we 
can hope to say anything worth listening to, we 
must first learn to understand ourselves ; we must 
know our powers and their limitations. Speaking 
broadly, we may say of man that he is an intensely 
emotional and highly rational being. It is these 
characteristics that distinguish him from the rest 
of creation. Feeling or emotion, however, is at 
the basis of everything. It sets in motion the 
machinery of the mind, it awakens in us the 
desire to know. But what is knowledge. Miss 
Winn? Have you ever stopped to inquire what 
knowledge is? It means only that we under- 
stand how objects look, feel, taste, what odor they 
yield, what sound they emit, and in what way 
they stand related to one another. We can never 


philosopher’s autobiography. 77 

know the first origin or the real substance of 
anything, not even of a piece of stone or a blade 
of grass. You can easily perceive the truth of 
this statement by bearing in mind that every 
answer which pretends to explain the first origin 
or real substance of things is itself but an addi- 
tional question in a declarative form. Let me 
give you an illustration. To the question ^What is 
the origin of the earth?’ the astronomer answers, 

^ It was gradually formed from nebulous matter.’ 
But this answer contains within itself the further 
question, ^ Where did this nebulous matter come 
from ?’ You see then at once how circumscribed 
is the province of reason. It can only deal with 
the qualities of things, the attributes of persons, 
and the way in which they all stand related to 
one another. Only the how, and not the original 
why or the original what, yields to the analytical 
powers of the mind. But we know that man is also 
an emotional, as well as a rational being, and that 
which baffles his reason stirs his emotions and 
awakens within him certain spiritual cravings. 
And now, if only we can perceive that there is a 
proper sphere for reason and a proper sphere for 
emotion ; that while reason is supreme within its 
limited sphere, it is utterly impotent outside 
of it ; if only we can remember that human beings 
are neither rational creatures without emotion. 


78 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


nor emotional creatures without reason, but that 
both the mind’s inquiries and the soul’s crav- 
ings are entitled to recognition and satisfaction, 
then we are in a position to approach the great 
problem which forms the subject-matter of religion, 
which has absorbed the attention of the greatest 
geniuses of all ages — the awful mystery involved 
in our own existence and that of the universe. 
Approach it, I say. But shall we ever be able 
to solve it? No, Miss Winn, never. Not by 
the light of reason, not through the medium of 
our emotions, not at all; unless, indeed, some su- 
pernatural illumination of the human mind, ren- 
dering it capable of comprehending the Infinite, be 
conceded as a possibility of the future — a qualifica- 
tion which I cannot persuade myself needs to be 
taken into serious account.’ 

^ And is this all the satisfaction we get from a 
study of ourselves, Mr. Soule? Do we attain to 
self-knowledge but to be plunged into deeper con- 
fusion — to see the mystery more mysterious?’ 

^ By no means. That the mystery stands out 
more mysteriously the more we ponder over it is, 
indeed, a fact which all of us must concede. But 
what we are now aiming at, what the study of phil- 
osophy should aim at, is simply to determine how 
we may best deal with a problem which, so far as 
our own spiritual and mental powers are concerned. 


philosopher’s autobiography. 79 

is beyond the possibility of a solution. I want par- 
ticularly to impress this on your mind, Miss Winn. 
It is a matter of vital importance. By religious 
progress we mean not a nearer approach to the 
solution of this mystery, but a better understanding 
of the proper attitude to be assumed toward it. 
Very well, then; let us see if we can form some 
clear notion of what this attitude should be. First 
of all, we must frankly admit that the ultimate 
purpose of life is beyond the reach of human 
knowledge. And, let me explain, by the ^ ulti- 
mate purpose ’ I mean the purpose considered 
apart from such pleasures and duties as make 
up our earthly existence. Why this universe exists 
at all, who is responsible for its existence, why it 
was ordained that we should live and die here on 
this little planet of ours — I use the word ^ why ’ in 
its deepest and broadest meaning — and what awaits 
us after death, are unsolved, insolvable enigmas. 
Nevertheless, reason forces us to the conclusion that 
there must be a sustaining something — let us call it 
God, if you please— back of life and the universe. 
Of the nature of God, we are profoundly ignorant. 
By no possible effort of the mind can we learn to 
know his attributes. It cannot be otherwise, for 
we are finite beings with circumscribed powers ; 
God is infinite with illimitable powers. The Infi- 
nite cannot be seen through a finite medium. The 


8o 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


moment we attempt to define God we make of him 
a finite being. Here^ then, we have the eternal 
basis of religion ; for true religion consists in the 
recognition of God as an undefined, indefinable 
reality, to which we ourselves and all else in the 
universe are in some way united. But this is to 
consider religion only from an intellectual point of 
view. Let us now look at it on its emotional side, 
and we shall find that man is under the spiritual 
necessity of craving for an elucidation of these 
mysteries, despite his inability to solve them. Try 
as we will, most of us cannot suppress the longing 
that life shall have a never-ending meaning, an 
everlasting purpose. Try as we will, most of us 
cannot stifle the desire to know in what way we 
stand related to the Infinite ; we cannot help 
wishing that death shall not annihilate the spirit of 
beauty that reigns in the universe, that it shall not 
blot out our personality and convert into eternal 
nothingness all those divine stirrings which music, 
art, nature and the love of our fellow-men awaken 
within us. Now these emotional cravings are no 
more to be ignored than the involuntary question- 
ings of the mind. Both are entitled to recognition ; 
and as we have logic to satisfy the investigations 
of reason, so, on the other hand, we need something 
to quench the thirst of our emotions. That some- 
thing certainly exists ; it is nothing else than faith ; 


philosopher’s autobiography. 


8i 


and, in this need of our nature, faith finds indeed 
its surest justification. But what faith, you will 
naturally ask? Shall it be the Christian faith? 
No ; not the faith of any particular creed, but such 
only as is born of a rationally trustful, reverent 
spirit, such as lies, indeed, at the basis of all re- 
ligion — faith in a superhuman scheme of things 
which gives to the mystery of life an everlasting 
meaning, a never-ending purpose, despite our total 
inability to discern what that meaning or purpose 
may be. Yes, he alone has the true faith who, 
while accepting the logical conclusions of reason, 
can still say, ‘I put my absolute trust in God.’ 

^And now. Miss Winn, I have, in a rather cir- 
cuitous way, at length arrived at the goal which 
from the first I have steadily had in view, namely? 
the reconciliation of faith and reason. If I have 
succeeded in making myself understood — and I 
trust I have — you cannot fail to perceive that there 
are two kinds of faith ; faith that contradicts 
reason, and faith that can well afford to defy it. 
You cannot fail to perceive that true religion has 
nothing whatever to fear from the utmost freedom 
of inquiry, and that between right reason and gen- 
uine faith there is not even so much as a shadow of 
antagonism.’ 

As I uttered these last words, I noticed that 
my companion was growing somewhat uneasy. I 


STRAY LEAVES FROM A 


could not account for the sudden change that had 
come over her, until she turned to me and said, 
somewhat nervously : 

Souie, I see my sister approaching. I 
must ask you, please, not to continue this subject 
in her presence. She is quite orthodox in her 
views, and I should prefer her to know nothing of 
this discussion.’ 

‘‘ ^ Certainly, Miss Winn,’ I replied, as I looked 
up the road, and saw the lady in question walking 
toward us in the company of a young man. 

‘‘ M thank you very much for what you have ex- 
plained to me,’ she continued. ‘ I have never 
thought of religion in that light. There is much 
that is not yet clear to me. I am not sure I have 
understood it all ; but it has given me much to 
think about, and I should like to resume the sub- 
ject again at some convenient time.’ 

^ Very well. Miss Winn,’ 1 answered, ‘ I shall 
always be pleased to talk these matters over with 
you. Perhaps you feel now very much as if I had 
thrown away the kernel of religion and left you only 
the shell ; but, believe me, the kernel is still there; 
only the shell is gone. Of course, I could not do 
justice to so comprehensive a theme in such a short 
time. I did not even have an opportunity to touch 
on the very important bearing which this view of 
religion must have on our relations to one another 


philosopher’s autobiography. 83 

in daily life. I think I could easily convince you 
that, rightly understood, the tendency would of 
necessity be to make of us better, truer, nobler men 
and women.’ 

The approaching figures were now close upon 
us and, much to my regret, I was constrained to 
discontinue the conversation. Miss Winn went 
forward to meet her sister, and, after an exchange 
of greetings on all sides, our entire party walked 
leisurely back to the hotel. 

Nearly two and a half years after the event 
which I have just narrated, this lady, whom I had 
first known as a little child, became my wife. 
There was no outward joy, however, to solemnize 
the occasion ; for in marrying one who was looked 
upon as a heretic beyond the pale of redemption. 
Miss Winn forfeited the good-will and respect of 
her nearest relatives, not even excepting her parents, 
whose unbounded Christian love and charity led 
Ihem to cast her off for the glory of God, with but 
little ceremony. I was contemptuously branded as 
an atheist ; and we were as little recognized by the 
truly pious portion of the Christian community as 
if we had belonged to those early Christians who, 
in blissful ignorance of the modern conception of a 
pious Christian, tried to live up to the moral pre- 
cepts of their great teacher. How Miss Winn came 
finally to renounce Christianity for the higher 


84 


STRAY LEAVES 


religious light that gradually dawned on her, what 
mental anguish was involved in the struggle, and 
how deeply she grieved over the separation from 
her family, she has herself told to the world in a 
style so charming, so full of beauty and tender 
pathos, that I shall not attempt to repeat the sad 
story of her life. Her troubles and sorrows 
brought her to an early grave. Behold some of the 
victories of Christianity I We had lived together 
only a few shor ; years ; but they were, indeed, years 
of infinite joy. We felt the cold chill of social iso- 
lation only to love each other the more intensely. 

It is now nearly three years since she passed 
away. At this moment I am sitting by the window 
that looks out on her grave. How well I remember 
the last time we stood here together 1 How well I 
remember that beautiful starlit night when I, half 
divining the awful end that was drawing near, 
begged her to tell me whether she regretted the 
great sacrifice she had made for me, and she, with 
her soft, delicate hand resting on my shoulder and 
her love-beaming eyes riveted upon me, resented 
the very suggestion of such a thought with all the 
warmth and tender earnestness of the true, brave, 
noble being that she was. Oh! how well I recall that 
night. It was the anniversary of our marriage day. 
Disease had already begun to torture her with its 
pains. She leaned her head upon my shoulder and 


FROM A 


85 


wept, wept not alone for the pain she was suffering ; 
no, wept for ^ man’s inhumanity to man that makes 
countless thousands mourn;’ wept to think that 
there should be orphans in the world whose parents 
were still alive, wept to think that she was ruthlessly 
shut out from the love of an entire community for 
having committed the unpardonable sin of trying to 
perfect her own development. 

‘‘As I look now across the field where, in the soft 
moonlight, stands the unpretentious monument that 
marks her last resting-place, as I recall that pure, 
sweet woman as she existed here on earth, a feeling 
of inexpressible sadness steals over me. Can it be, 
I ask myself, that total annihilation is the ultimate 
destiny of so beautiful a being? Without a doubt, 
to my limited vision, it seems so ; yet my whole 
soul rebels against the thought. True, my earnest 
wish that it shall be otherwise is no argument what- 
ever against the possibility of such awful desola- 
tion ; but, on the other hand, just because my 
vision is limited, just because I am a finite being 
unable to travel outside of my limited sphere, just 
because I know not, and cannot know what is the 
real meaning of death, I have the faith to believe 
that, had I the power to grasp in its entirety the 
universal scheme of things, I should be able to dis- 
cern that which would give a never-ending purpose, 
an everlasting significance, to the life of so beau- 


86 philosopher’s autobiography. 

tiful a being. What the solution would be, I have 
not the remotest shadow of an idea ; but herein, 
indeed, consists the true faith. I know not ; I put 
my trust in the superhuman ordering of things, the 
meaning of which is veiled from mortal eyes. But, 
meanwhile, I mourn her loss in spite of all possible 
sible consolations. How can it be otherwise? 
Where are the rays that can effectually dispel 
the gloom of death even if there be a ray of 
faith to pierce it? Where is the power that will 
restore my love to me here — here on earth? Will 
the Christian faith bring her back to me now, 
if I pray to the Christian God? Where, where is 
that restorative power? Alas! alas! let us not 
delude ourselves. But the tears are rolling down 
my cheeks. My paper is moist. The pen is tremb- 
ling in my hand. Pardon me, kind reader, I 
cannot go on — I have not the spirit to write any 
more to-night. . . . ” 

December, i88g. 


MO ONL IGHT M USINGS. 


An Extract from a Young Lady' s Diary. 

(( UNE, 1889. — What a glorious night ! How 



serenely beautiful the soulful repose of the 


summer moonlight — the tranquil grandeur of the 
wide, blue sweep of the starlit heavens ! This 
universe — in such wondrous mystery wrought — 
how, with the music of a million moving orbs, its 
animating spirit stirs the deepest depths of the soul ! 
Here alone in my room, spending the summer in 
Baltimore with a dear friend of my mother’s, I am 
looking out on Mount Vernon Place. What an en- 
chanting spot ! How much snugness in its artistic 
beauty ! What an air of refinement, what a gen- 
uine aristocratic aroma pervades the place ! From 
where I sit I can plainly see the white, towering 
shaft of Washington Monument. Situated at the 
junction of four streets, it is flanked on all sides by 
open squares, tastefully laid out, which slope more 
or less gently in their fourfold descent from its base. 
Immediately in front of me lies the westernmost 
square, with bits of neatly trimmed greensward. 


88 


MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. 


Its entrances are guarded by bronzes, the work of 
the French sculptor Barye ; and in the center is a 
lily-shaped fountain which sends forth a single jet 
of water from a cluster of powdery sprays. Close 
by, stands an imposing brownstone mansion — the 
residence of the president of a great railway com- 
pany — with its ornamented fagade of rich, unob- 
trusive elegance. And here, too, dwells one, 
whose fine collection of paintings has made his 
name familiar to lovers of art ; and from my 
window I can catch a glimpse of Mount Vernon 
Place Church, which faces a broad, white marble 
building of simple design, the Peabody Institute. 

Sitting here, listening to the plash that 
ascends faintly from the fountain below, and 
dreamily watching its tiny sprays in their moon- 
light dance, I think of home. Home ! What a 
world of tenderness centers about that little word 
for one who leaves the hearth for the first time 1 
Can it be that I am already beginning to feel home- 
sick, here amid all this loveliness? Or — I have just 
returned from a hop — are my ballroom experiences 
perhaps responsible for this feeling of depression ? 
How difficult I find it to put myself in harmony 
with such surroundings ! Sometimes, in the midst 
of it all, I am half inclined to laugh aloud at the 
torture which many of us inflict on ourselves, at our 
desperate efforts to beguile one another into be- 


MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. 


89 


lieving that we are enjoying ourselves hugely — it 
looks so like a burlesque ; but, when I am in a more 
serious mood, I shrink, with bitter sorrow, from this 
hollow levity, with its punctilious manners, its false 
smiles and affected gayety. , How different such 
soul-blighting frivolity from the keen spiritual joys 
of life ! 

‘‘ I have a cynical friend who characterizes balls 
as grand ^ butterfly shows ’ where flighty creatures, 
attracted by outward pomp and glitter, may be 
seen flitting about decked in their gayest colors. 

‘ Catch us if you can,’ he imagines he hears 
these airy butterflies say to a set of light-headed 
males ; nor do these beautiful creatures seem to him 
to display much energy in the use of their wings. 
My friend, who leads a somewhat secluded life 
himself, justly inveighs against the shams of society 
with all the vehemence of an excitable nature. 
When speaking of these matters, however, I think 
he is often inclined to be a little too severe — at 
least on those of our sex who, while in substantial 
accord with him, find it, nevertheless, necessary to 
mingle more freely with the world. What he con- 
demns — the idle frivolities and trivial conversations 
of social life — is equally abhorrent to me ; but so 
long as there are others who enter society with some- 
thing of my own reluctance, for reasons equally 
cogent, whose friendship may be worth cultivating, I 


90 


MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. 


consent to be thus bored, for a time at least, as a 
possible means of ultimately surrounding myself 
with a few congenial spirits. This self-imposed 
torture is the tribute which many of us girls must 
pay for the right of exercising what may be called 
the faculty of social selection. My friend forgets 
the immense advantage which he, as a man, has 
over us in greater social freedom, in opportunities 
for forming acquaintances through avenues not open 
to us ; yet some of us prize so highly those affec- 
tions of the soul — genuine enthusiasm for the beau- 
tiful in nature and in art, fellow-feeling, sympathy, 
love, which do indeed constitute the real bond of 
union between human beings — that we try to 
breathe freely in an artificial atmosphere, with the 
earnest hope of now and then catching a noble 
breath of life such as might have otherwise wholly 
escaped us. So persistently do we yearn after the 
ideal, that we go in quest of it even where it is not 
very likely to be found. 

The young man whom I so often see in the room 
opposite me, poring over his books until far into 
the night — my philosopher, as I have accustomed 
myself to think of him ; for I imagine he is gener- 
ally pondering some weighty problem of life — is 
sitting by the open window with his head thrown 
back, smoking a cigar. He seems a little restless, 
somewhat discontented — not nearly so calm as 


MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. 


91 


usual. I fancy I can detect a dark hue of disap- 
pointment, the sombre touch of a deep sigh in his 
illumined gaze. What is he meditating about, I 
wonder? Has he perhaps, too, just returned from 
some social gathering ; perchance met some one 
there in whom he once saw the lovely embodiment 
of his ideal, only to realize now, in painful reflec- 
tion, that the high-minded woman he made her out 
to be was but a phantom of his own imaginings ? 
Ah, how cruel a disenchantment this rude awaken- 
ing to the truth, that we have mistaken for a realized 
ideal what must forever remain but a beautiful 
possibility ! And yet, is there not some consolation, 
too, in these soul-deluding fancies? Is it not better 
far thus to invest some fascinating personality with 
the spiritual beauty it may not possess, than to dis- 
cover nothing but sordid unloveliness in the aspir- 
ings of a truly noble soul? Yes; a thousand 
times yes ; only let each rude awakening serve but 
to urge us on farther and farther in search of our 
ideals, and our very disappointments will at last 
find their way among those hidden spiritual forces 
that constitute the most potent of all influences 
in beautifying, enriching and ennobling life. But 
there ! my philosopher has just extinguished his 
light. It is growing very late. I must leave off 
moralizing for to-night.” 

December, i88g. 


4 


t 




k y 
% 

I , 


I • » V • r-< r ^ ' 

*. V' 

* 


I 




$ 


f 


4 


I • I 

4 
J 


r 



\ 


* 


0 

t 


\ 


4 


i 


i 


4 




I 


J 


I 





% 


« 


4 


I 


» 




I 




» 




4 


I 




I 


I 


• r 


I 


4 


4 


t 

4 ’. 



I 


4 


P 

I 


I* 




• 4 


4 


\ 


r 


' i 


I 


. ,» 






I 


t 




1 1 

I 


4 




I 


4' 

\ 


4 




•" 4 

> 


» 


I 


I 


• f 


• t 


t 


t 


* 


f 


» 

c • 



41 •- 




I ' 


1 


> 


I 


* 


I 


I 



t 


I 

t 



I . 

j . • 

/• 

I 


■ f . 

■ 1 . 
I * ’ ' 


I 


asvwaiHm*. ,,■■..•■ "'/y *-.y *''>., S’ "V 



• r 

^vr 

# « 


’ ^ 4 \ 

VA ^ 

V 

9 > 

4 



■ 9/ 

1 • « 


t • 

V • 


» » 

A 


■ H 


■V.. «i 


•• t 


\ 


y*>S^ 




'•* 


.V V 


vr. V 





A 


.» .» 



. I 


'* ' .^ ■ - A 

* . • -i ., 

' t/: 


• ^ ^ * t' 

/y 


jf ^ 






' .U’’; ■ -'‘T .■ ■‘•■>' 

•V^' • • 4 * *' ■* 

• /'V^sT /*■'■ « ■ ■• ’ : ■ ■. 

■ ,i\-. , -av,, . •'. ■ ■ ■ / .' . •> ,y- t \ 




*■-: 


« 

• j 



• ^ '-Yr •“'A ' • 

',^5^ M -X^’V.-'- ' ■•■■^ .■.■•■' ^ ' X »■' - 

-iiSaWMHL -t- vcA^. ' s 

■^^■Dll*- ■•• ' ' * I":*. viiiS^V '• i . > V * ' ' 

^ .*■•'-1 A * •' < ‘ T'M r ' * ' 



* * 


V V sW^ 

■ ''■'■■' I ■ wi''^-''-\'. '• j 

'■ Xr^'- ... 


‘•V- 


- w - rf< yiijiv vw* •■’■•ir 





i' 



t, 


Vi) 



K.. 

i . 


’i 

s 



1 


^ 4 * 




V. 
'Jv 


. ; *' 


■ .1 



/ 



I 


f 



rt 

i't 


t 





* 


t 

I 


% 




t 


* 




I 


• ' t 

\ 




^ "9 

• • 


* 


I 

* • . 

I 


•> 


\ 


9 * 


V * t 






> 



k » 


I 




« 


t 

r 



t 







t 




r<* H. 

I 




V 




A. 



. 

t 


w. I |.- 

♦ , 

« 








V 



f- 




I 





f . • 





« 








I 


k 

^ * 




f 



A 



% 























"'V'V' " -v*' ‘‘ 

•T-' .••:•. V 






> ’. 'N'-ii.* - J^v*" ' r’^' *. '■ • ”*«V' * 4 .> * 41 ^ 

. - 5 , 1 >*1 ■ . ■ ■ '. " 


. '^.■’ r I . . \ .V ♦ 

'^■•' *^t ' '* '/•'^‘.:- 

L --^ ■ y , . • ' r ^ 


’ tj- ■ 



.-i'r .*^’ '* '^v.’'.’-i 

fc V 


L.. jsssfe : 


>1;^ 


S''-' ' "'h' • ' ’‘■'I C- '‘- ■''*■ - 








□ODmaasoaD 


